Mrs.   F.  M.   Foster 


IN  OTHER  WORDS 


IN 

OTHER  WORDS 


By 
FRANKLIN  P.  ADAMS 

AUTHOR  OF 
"  TOBOGGANING  ON   PARNASSUS  " 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &   COMPANY 

1912 


Copyright,  191%,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ06,  1908,  BY  KEPPLER  &  SCHWARZMANN 

Publishers  of  "  Puck  " 

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f/j 


To 
THE  W.-K.  HUMAN  RACE 

THIS  BOOK  IS  HOPEFULLY 

DEDICATED 


Craving  Your  Attention 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  32. 
"Poscimur.  Si  quid  vacui  sub  umbra — " 

AD  LYRAM 

Help  me,  my  lute,  if  we  have  ever  made 
Some  deathless  ode,  some  song  to  live  for 
ever, 

A  verse  to  make  them  say:   "Some  serenade, 
Believe  me,  this  her  Flaccus  guy  is  clever" — 

Come,  Lesbian  lyre,  assist  me  with  the  verses 

To  bring  thee  fame,  to  garner  me  sesterces. 

Stalling  his  motor-boat  close  to  the  shore, 
Thine  erstwhile  owner  smote  the  strings  to 

Bacchus 

And  sang  to  Venus,  in  the  midst  of  war, 
Be  thou  as  kind  to  Mr.  Q.  H.  Flaccus. 
Dear  lute,  I  beg,  implore,  invoke  thee  do  it; 
Give  me  thine  aid,  o  lute!      .     .     .     Come, 
let's  go  to  it. 


VI 


CONTENTS 


Craving  Your  Attention vi 

From  the  Rome  Herald,  Nov.  29,  71  A.  D  i 

T.  R.  to  W.  H.  T 3 

The  Costofliving 5 

It's  Really  Disheartening    .....  7 

More  Advice 9 

A  Bid  to  a  House-Party n 

What  Cut  into  Horace's  Work    ...  13 

Horace  on  Contentment 14 

"Simplicity" 16 

Getting  Lydia's  Number 17 

Spring  Pome 19 

A  Sealed  Proposal   ..........  21 

Cheer  Up,  Postumus 22 

The  Good  Old  Socialistic  Days      ...  24 

A  Plea  for  the  Present        25 

Indorsing  Xanthias's  Choice    ....  26 

Horace  to  Maecenas        27 

"Good-by,  My  Lover,  Good-by!"    .     .  29 

Thoughts  on  Matters  and  Things    .     .  30 

On  an  Upright  Life 33 

The  Stinging  of  V.  Catullus,  Esq.       .     .  35 

V.  Catullus  Said  in  Part 36 


Content* 

»*•« 

The  Mathematics  of  Catullus      ...  37 

Catullus  to  His  Knockers        ....  38 

Handing  It  to  Cynthia       39 

The  Beefing  of  S.  Propertius,  Esq.       .  41 

Indorsing  a  w.  k.  Emotion      ....  43 

Propertius  Confesses       44 

Roman  Innuendo 45 

To  Julia,  on  June  21 46 

Martial's  Bit  of  a  Joke 47 

A  Ballade  of  Known  and  Unknown  Mat 
ters    48 

The  Translated  Way 50 

The  Height  of  Disagreeableness       .     .  53 

As  to  Eyes 54 

The  Truth  About  the  Sprat ts      ...  55 

Campaign  Thoughts 57 

Everybody's  Overdoing  It    "V.    .     .     .  59 

Baseball's  Sad  Lexicon 62 

To  Myrtilla,  on  Opening  Day     ...  63 

A  Ballplayer's  Day 64 

Ever  See  Her? 65 

A  Ballad  of  Baseball  Burdens     ...  66 

John  Jones,  Clerk 68 

One  More       69 

"And  the  Only  Tune  That  He  Could 

Play" 7* 

Thorns,  Rifts,  Clouds,  Flaws,  Blemishes, 

Etc 71 

"May  Recover" 73 

As  John  Howard  Payne  Said    .  *  ...  74 

For  the  Other  364  Dayi 75 

viii 


Contents 

FACE 

Us  Poles        76 

Footlight  Motifs 77 

Revised 82 

The  Lost  Wheeze       83 

From  an  Awningless  Sanctum     ...  85 

"On  Christmas  Day  in  the  Morning"  86 

From  a  Paragrapher's  Garden  of  Verses  87 

Gilbert 88 

Lines  to  Margaret,  a  Singing  and  Whis 
tling  Cook 89 

A  Pathetic  Bit  of  a  Ballad     ....  90 

Song  of  the  Costofliving 91 

The  Old  Man's  Discomforts    ....  92 

The  Fool       94 

To  the  Wind:  After  Gilbert's  "To  the 

Terrestrial  Globe"       95 

To  a  Lady  Complaining  of  Solitude        .  90 

The  Pandean  Is  No  Pipe 97 

"The  Poems  of  Eugene  Field"    ...  98 

Success 101 

Managerial  Tradition 103 

"Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year"    .  104 

After  Samuel  Rogers 114 

The  Diplomaniacs 116 

Rondel 117 

To  the  Waltonian  Bards 118 

Triolettuce  Salad 119 

The  Easy  Giggle 121 

The  Ballade  of  the  Northern  Girl      .     .  123 

Lines  on  the  Sabbath 125 

1 '  The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  "    .  127 

ix 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  Exile  of  Erin       .......  129 

Of  Course  You  Would 131 

True  Comfort 133 

To  Gelett  Burgess 134 

Bacchanalian  Songs 135 

On  a  Certain  Propensity  of  Bootblacks 
to   Toy  with   the   Shoelaces   of   the 

Shinee 136 

Christmas  Cards 137 

Thanking  One  and  All 141 

Lines  in  Appreciation  of  a  Lady's  Art     .  143 

For  Cummuters  Only 144 

Inept  Quotation's  Artificial  Aid        .     .  145 

Some  Speeches        148 

No  Trouble  to  Show  Goods    .    .    .    .  150 


From  the  Rome  Herald,  Nov.  29,  71  A.  D. 

Martial:  Book  DC,  Epigram  81. 

Though  for  my  stujf  my  readers  fall, 
A  poet  likes  it  not  at  all. 
But,  pshaw!  what  time  I  give  a  feast 
The  cook,  perhaps,  is  pleased  the  least. 


IN  OTHER  WORDS 
T,  R.  to  W.  H.  T. 

"/  was  a  king  in  Babylon 

And  you  were  a  Christian  slave." 

HENLEY. 

Or  ever  the  knightly  fight  was  on, 
The  skirmish  of  smear  and  smudge, 

I  was  a  King  in  Washington 
And  you  were  a  circuit  judge. 

I  saw,  I  took,  I  made  you  great, 

Friendly  I  called  you  Will, 
And  back  in  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Eight, 

Out  in  Chicago,  111., 
I  made  the  convention  nominate, 

And  now  —  the  terrible  chill. 

For  many  a  sun  has  set  and  shone 

On  the  path  we  used  to  trudge 
When  I  was  a  King  in  Washington 

And  you  were  a  circuit  judge. 

I  passed  the  lie  and  you  passed  it  back; 

You  said  I  was  all  untruth; 
I  said  that  honesty  was  your  lack; 


In  Other  Words 

You  said  I'd  nor  reck  nor  ruth. 
You  called  me  megalomaniac  — 
I  called  you  a  Serpent's  Tooth. 

And  now  the  convention  days  are  gone 
And  the  past  is  full  of  grudge; 

Yet  —  I  was  a  King  in  Washington, 
And  you  were  a  circuit  judge! 


The  Costof living 
This  is  the  costofliving  —  $$ 

This  is  the  retailer 

That  raises  the  costofliving. 

This  is  the  wholesaler 
That  soaks  the  retailer 
That  raises  the  costofliving. 

This  is  the  packer 
That  sticks  the  wholesaler 
That  soaks  the  retailer 
That  raises  the  costofliving. 

This  is  the  stockman 
That  charges  the  packer 
That  sticks  the  wholesaler 
That  soaks  the  retailer 
That  raises  the  costofiiving. 

This  is  the  farmer 
That  stings  the  stockman 
That  charges  the  packer 
That  sticks  the  wholesaler 
That  soaks  the  retailer 
That  raises  the  costofliving, 
5 


In  Other  Words 

This  is  the  corn  upon  the  farm 

Whose  cost  the  farmer  views  with  alarm; 

So  he  stings  the  stockman 

That  charges  the  packer 

That  sticks  the  wholesaler 

That  soaks  the  retailer 

That  raises  the  costofliving. 

This  is  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn, 
That  must  be  fed  on  the  farmer's  corn  — 
The  corn  the  farmer  grows  on  the  farm  — 
The  corn  whose  cost  he  views  with  alarm: 
So  he  stings  the  stockman 
That  charges  the  packer 
That  sticks  the  wholesaler 
That  soaks  the  retailers 
That  raises  the  costofliving. 

This  the  consumer  all  forlorn 

Who  pays  fcr  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn  — 

The  cow  that  feeds  on  the  farmer's  corn 

That  grows  so  fine  on  the  farmer's  farm  — 

The  corn  whose  cost  he  views  with  alarm: 

So  he  stings  the  stockman 

That  charges  the  packer 

That  sticks  the  wholesaler 

That  soakes  the  retailer 

That  raises  the  costofliving. 


It's  Really  Disheartening 

When  Homer  smote  his  you-know-what 

To  sing  about  M.  J.  Ulysses, 
Old  Constant  Reader  said  'twas  not 

The  thing  to  read  to  youths  and  misses. 
And  Old  Subscriber  sent  a  note 

Whose  words  Hellenic  I've  forgotten  — 
Translated,  this  is  what  he  wrote : 

"Please  can  this  Homer  simp;  he's  rotten." 

When  Q.  Horatius  penned  a  pome 

And  put  it  in  the  Sabine  Journal, 
Pro  Bono  Publico,  of  Rome, 

Wrote  in:  "This  column  is  infernal. 
If  that  is  humorous,  good  night! 

Don't  tell  me  that  you  pay  him  money. 
Whoever  said  this  boob  could  write? 

Whoever  told  him  he  was  funny?  " 

And  when  a  column,  all  in  rhyme, 

In  solid  agate,  signed  "John  Milton," 
Appeared,  some  cleped  him  "Quince"  and 
"Lime," 

And  said  his  stuff  was  very  Stilton. 
When  Avon's  bard  put  on  a  play 

Those  were  who  said:   "He  can't  deliver, 
This  William  Shaxpur!     Fade  away! 

Good  sooth,  the  fellow  is  a  flivver!" 


In  Other  Words 

His  path  is  steep,  his  lot  is  hard, 

Who  Rare  and  Wondrous  Lines  composes. 
Alas !  to  be  a  famous  bard 

Is  not  an  ostermoor  of  roses! 
And  if  of  those  great  poet-men 

Some  folks  would  say:  "This  guy  a  shine 

is," 
What  show  have  I?  for  now  and  then 

Their  stuff  was  just  as  good  as  mine  is. 


More  Advice 

AD   QUINTIUM 

Horace:  Book  II,  Ode  u. 

"Quid  bellicosus  Caniaber  et  Scythes  — " 

0  Quintius,  never  mind  the  things 

Across  the  Adriatic; 
Let  Scythian  and  Cantabrian  kings 

Be  never  so  emphatic, 

Our  board  and  room  and  clothes  are  paid  for; 
Why  worry,  then,  what  we  were  made  for? 

As  I  have  said  a  thousand  times, 

(Please  pardon  my  repeating. 
One  has  to,  writing  reams  of  rhymes.) 

The  longest  life  is  fleeting. 
(Bromidic  and  unesoteric  — 
See  Longfellow  and  Robert  Herrick.) 

The  flowers  forget  the  vernal  green, 

The  moon  has  many  phases. 
Why  bother,  then,  the  busy  bean 

With  the  future's  fogs  and  hazes? 
Nix  on  the  worry!  Us  for  Bacchus! 
You,  Quintius,  and  your  Uncle  Flaccus. 

9 


In  Other  Words 

And  while  we're  waiting  for  the  drinks 

Here  in  the  grotto  shady, 
There  may  appear  the  well-known  minx, 

That  lovely  Lyde  lady, 
Who  fixes  up  her  hair  so  graceful  — 
Grab  it  from  me,  she  beats  an  ace  full. 


10 


A  Bid  to  a  House-Party 

AD    TORQUATUM 

Horace:  Book  I,  Epistle  5. 

"Si  potts  Archiacis  conviva  recumbere  lectis — " 

Torquatus,  if  you  can  recline 

On  this  cheap  furniture  of  mine, 

If  you  are  of  a  mind  to  dare 

My  frugal  vegetable  fare, 

If  six-year  wine  may  pass  your  throat  — 

Then  come  and  \isit  this  here  pote. 

My  house  is  clean,  though  far  from  sporty; 

I'll  look  for  you  about  5.40. 

Some  years  ago  to-morrow  morn 
Was  old  Augustus  Caesar  born. 
It  is  a  legal  holiday 
And  so  we  needn't  leave  the  hay 
Till  noon.     To-night  we'll  fool  around 
Discussing  light  things  and  profound: 
Girls,  poetry  and  aviation, 
And  eke  the  future  of  the  nation. 
11 


In  Other  Words 

What  use  is  all  my  coin  to  me 
Without  a  friend  or  two  or  three? 
The  guy  who's  cagey  with  his  kale 
Should  beat  it  quick  to  Bloomingdale. 
A  little  wine's  the  proper  dope, 
It  makes  you  talk  and  sing  and  hope, 
Peace  it  promotes,  for  who  would  bicker 
When  plied  with  wine?    Hooray  for  licker! 

The  gifted  author  of  this  pome 
Shall  tend  to  everything  at  home; 
The  dishes  will  be  clean  and  fine, 
And  how  the  knives  and  forks  will  shine! 
Three  other  chaps  I  shall  invite 
(Five-handed  games  —  are  they  all  right?) 
Nor  care  nor  woe  shall  agitate  us, 
Come  on,  old  scout,  come  on,  Torquatus! 


What  Cut  into  Horace's  Work 

AD  MAECENATEM 
Horace,  Epode  XIV. 

"Mollis  inertia  cur  tantam  di/uderit  imis 
Oblivionem  sensibus  — " 

"What  is  the  cause  of  this  tardy  inspiring  — 
Too  many  juleps  traversing  your  throat? " 

Thus,  my  Maecenas,  your  ceaseless  inquiring. 
Chop  it,  old  top,  it  arouses  my  goat. 

Blame  not  the  stuff  that  is  sacred  to  Bacchus; 

Cupid's  the  reason  that  pome  isn't  done. 
He  is  some  deity,  flip  it  from  Flaccus, 

Keeps  me  from  finishing  work  I've  begun. 

Well,  Old  Anacreon  had  the  bacillus; 

Burning  affection  kept  him  on  the  rack. 
He  couldn't  work  when  he  thought  of   Ba- 
thyllus 

(Read  what  was  written  on  that  by  Anack). 

As  to  your  Beautiful  Lady,  Maecenas, 
Helen  herself  was  no  fairer  a  frail. 

Phryne  the  flirt,  but  consid'able  Venus, 
Keeps  me  from  work  for  THE  EVENING 
MAIL. 

13 


Horace  on  Contentment 

Book  II,  Ode  18. 

"Non  ebur  neque  aureum 

Mea  renidet  in  domo  lacunar  — " 

Within  my  modest  home  nor  ivory  gleams, 

Nor  in  my  room  a  golden  ceiling  glitters; 
No  pillars  mine  from  Africa's  extremes, 

No  purple  spun  by  lovely  lady-knitters. 
I'm  poor  but  honest,  and  —  you'll  give  me 

credit  — 

Some  poet,  too.    Some  poet's  right;  you  said 
it. 

For  further  favors  I  do  not  implore 
The  gods  above  nor  any  human  being; 

My  Sabine  farm's  enough.    I  ask  no  more. 
I  never  argue  with  the  fates'  decreeing. 

Day  follows  day.    I  never  dared  to  doubt  it. 

Suppose  I  did?    What  could  I  do  about  it? 

And  yet  the  very  marble  newly  hewn, 
The  very  stone  you  gaze  at,  eager,  merry, 

That  stone  may  lie  above  you  very  soon 
In  Forest  Hills,  the  well-known  ceme-tery. 

And  still,  instead  of  charity  and  penance, 

You  raise  the  rent  and  disposses  your  tenants. 
14 


Horace  on  Contentment 

But  stay  1    Despite  your  wondrous  wealth  and 

fame, 

None  is  so  sure  as  Plato,  so  rapacious  — 
You  cannot  beat,  you  cannot  tie  his  game; 
The  grave  that  yawns  for  rich  and  poor  is 

spacious. 

(TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE:  Q.  H.  was  euphemistic. 
They  used  to  say.    /  call  him  socialistic.) 


15 


"Simplicity" 

AD  PUERUM 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  38. 

"Persicos  odi,  puer  apparatus  — " 

The    Persian    pomp    and    circumstance    are 

things  I  do  not  like; 
I  shall  not  buy  a  motor-car  while  I  possess  a 

bike; 
I  will  not  buy  a  Panama  to  place  upon  my 

head, 
A  simple  sennitt  bonnet,  boy,  purchase  for 

me  instead. 

For  such  a  thatch  will  do  for  you  as  it  has 
done  for  me  — 

An  ordinary  straw  hat,  for  a  dollar  thirty- 
three. 

Then  to  the  coolest  bar  in  town  for  some 
Milwaukee  liquor 

Where  I  may  watch  the  ball-game  —  as  it 
comes  over  the  ticker. 


16 


Getting  Lydia's  Number 

AD    LYDIAM 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  8. 

"Lydia,  die,  per  omnis  — " 

Lydia,  by  the  gods  above, 
Tell  me  why,  O  maid  magnetic, 

You  must  ruin  with  your  love 
Him  that  used  to  be  athletic? 

Tell  me  why,  O  maid  magnetic, 
Sybaris  will  not  cavort  — 

Him  that  used  to  be  athletic, 
Him  that  used  to  be  a  sport? 

Sybaris  will  not  cavort 
On  the  field  or  in  the  river  — 

Him  that  used  to  be  a  sport 
With  the  quoit  or  with  the  quiver! 

On  the  field  or  in  the  river, 
On  the  court  or  on  the  links, 

With  the  quoit  or  with  the  quiver  — 
You're  his  Jonah,  you're  his  Jinx! 

On  the  court  or  on  the  links 
Sybaris  was  once  a  wonder, 

You're  his  Jonah,  you're  his  Jinx  — 
Why  delight  to  drag  him  under? 

17 


In  Other  Words 

Sybaris  was  once  a  wonder 
You  must  ruin  with  your  love. 

Why  delight  to  drag  him  under? 
Lydia,  by  the  gods  above! 


18 


Spring  Pome 

AD    SEXTIUM 
Horace:  Book  II,  Ode  4. 
"Solvitur  acris  hiems  grata — " 

The  backbone  of  winter  is  shattered  to  pieces; 
The  breezes  are  balmy  that  blow  from  the 

west; 

The  farmer  his  cows  from  the  stable  releases; 
The  ploughman  gets  up  from  his  fireside 

domest; 

No  more  are  the  meadows  all  icy  and  snowy; 
Come  columns  on  Mathewson,  Sweeney  and 

Kling; 

The    strawberry    shortcake    is    heavy    and 
doughy  — 

'Tis  Spring! 

Now  Venus,  the  w.  k.  Cytherean, 

Cavorts  Isadorably  under  the  moon, 
Assisted  by  choruses  gracile,  nymphean. 

She  dances  a  measure  that's  wholly  jejune. 

Tis  time  to  divert  one's  estraying  attention 

To   bonnets    embowered    with    every    old 

thing  — 

Fruits,  myrtle  and  parsley  —  again  I  must 
mention 

'Tis  Spring! 

19 


In  Other  Words 

'Tis  time  for  the  sacrifice  sacred  to  Faunus  — 
He  may  get  our  lambkin,  he  may  get  our 

goat. 

O  Sextius,  ere  death  shall  have  wholly  with 
drawn  us, 

Take  this  from  Hcratius,  your  favorite  pote; 
Soon  Pluto  will  call  you,  at  some  unforeseen 

time, 

You'll  go,  be  you  journalist-jester  or  king, 
You  can't  get  away  from  it.    But,  in  the 
meantime, 

Tis  Spring  1 


A  Scaled  Proposal 

AD    CHLOEN 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  23. 

"Vitas  hinnuleo  me  similis,  Chloe—" 

Nay,  Chloe,  dear,  forget  your  fear, 

Nor  like  a  frightened  fawn  outrun  me; 
No  savage  I  to  horrify  — 

You  shouldn't  shun  me. 

Come,  Chloe,  queen,  you're  seventeen; 

There's  many  a  precedent  to  back  us. 
Why  shouldn't  you  be  Mrs.  Q. 
Horatius  Flaccus? 


21 


Cheer  Up,  Postumus 

AD   POSTUMUM 

Horace,  Book  II,  Ode  14. 

"Eheul  Jugaces,    Postume,    Postume—" 

O  Postumus,  dear  Postumus,  Old  Father 
Time's  a  sprinter, 

The  summer  of  my  life  is  spent,  approaches 
now  the  winter; 

Nor  all  my  Wit  nor  Piety,  to  quote  Omar  Fitz 
gerald, 

Can  keep  my  obit  from  appearing  in  the  Sabine 
Herald. 


If  for  a  daily  sacrifice  you  killed  three  hundred 

cattle, 
Think  you  that  it  would  keep  from  you  the 

Dread  and  Final  Rattle? 
Nix!    Though  you  build  eight  colleges  and 

lib'ries  eighty-seven, 
You  can't  avoid  what  Rhyme  demands  I 

designate  as  Heaven. 

22 


Cheer  Up,  Postumus 

Your  home,   your   wife,   your  family,   your 

uncles,  ay!  and  your  aunts  — 
You'll  have  to  leave  'em  all  behind.     (Have 

you  enough  insurance?) 
And  O,  the  cob  webbed  Caecuban  now  aging 

in  your  cellar 
You'll  have  to  deed  to  some  one  who's  a  nice, 

deserving  feller. 


23 


The  Good  Old  Socialistic  Days 

IN  SUI  SAECULI  LUXURIAM 

Horace:  Book  II,  Ode  15. 
"Jam  pauca  aratro  jugera  regiae  — " 

With  skyscrapers  building  a  dozen  a  day, 
I  am  anxious,  I  View-with- Alarm; 

And  I'd  like  to  know  how  there'll  be  room  for 

the  plow, 
And  what's  going  to  become  of  the  farm. 

Time  was  when  the  olive  was  w.  k., 

Now  myrtle  and  violet  are  in. 
I  urge  on  this  nation  of  Rome,  Conservation  — 

This  waste  is  a  shame  and  a  sin. 

When  Romulus  reigned  and  when  Cato  was 
king, 

Conditions  were  never  so  tough; 
The  Morgans  and  such  hadn't  any  too  much, 

And  the  poorest  had  more  than  enough. 

Return  once  again,  O  ye  days  that  I  sing, 

When  Labor  was  wearing  a  crown ! 
O  life  was  more  spacious,   grab   this  from 

Horatius, 

When  Rome  was  a  Socialist  town. 
24 


A  Pica  for  the  Present 

AD  LEUCONOEM. 

Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  n. 

"Tu  ne  quaesieris,  scire  nefas  — " 

Be  not,  I  pray,  so  curious 
For  knowledge;  it's  injurious 

To  know  about  the  future 

And  compute  your 

Every  chance. 

'Twould  be  a  source  of  pain  to  you 
To  find  what  years  remain  to  you 

To  know  your  length  of  tether 

And  the  weather 
In  advance. 

Life?    Don't  have  such  a  thirst  of  it; 
The  best  you  get's  the  worst  of  it! 

You  can't  be  here  forever, 
They  assever. 

Watch  your  step ! 
While  I've  been  oratorical 
Pa  Tempus  (metaphorical) 

Has,  as  it  were,  been  guying 
Me  by  flying. 
—  Are  you  hep? 
25 


Indorsing  Xanthias's  Choice 

AD  XANTHIUM  PHOCEUM. 
Horace:  Book  II,  Ode  4. 

"Ne  sit  ancillae  tibi  amor  pudori, 
Xanthia  Phoceu!" 

Don't    let    your  yearning    for  your    cook, 

O  Xanth,  give  you  the  willies. 
Remember    how    Briseis,    though     a    slave, 

aroused  Achilles; 
The  Telamonian  Ajax  young  Tecmessa  made  a 

hit  with; 
And  Agamemnon  had  a  maid  whom  he  was 

awful  smit  with. 
Why,  I  would  give  you  8  to  5  —  and  I  am  far 

from  gambly  — 
That  Phyllis  is  descended  from  some  fine  old 

Southern  fam'ly. 

Accept  it  from  the  occupant  of  this  here  con 
ning  steeple: 
As  nice  a  girl  as  she  is  must  have  come  from 

Lovely  People. 
Look  at  her  arms  —  they're  perfect!    So  the 

beauty  of  her  face  is; 
And  —  as  an  artist  —  I  indorse  her  —  well, 

her  other  graces. 
Nay,  be  not  jealous  of  the  bard,  my  Xanthias ! 

Remember 
Your  uncle  will  be  forty-one  the  seventh  of 

September. 

26 


Horace  to  Maecenas 

THE    BARD    ASKED    HIS    PATRON    FOR   BASEBALL   TICKETS 

Maecenas,  in  many  an  ode 

I've  jollied  and  flattered  and  praised  you, 
In  metre  Glyconic,  alcaic,  adonic, 

I've  mentioned  you  dozens  of  times. 
The  virtues  that  I  have  bestowed 
On  you!  and  the  heights  where  I've  raised 

you! 
You  pander  and  pet  me,  but  what  does 

it  get  me? 
I  want  some  reward  for  my  rhymes. 

I've  called  you  a  great  little  guy 
Right  n.  p.  r.  m.,  top  o'  colyum; 

I've  pinned  some  verbenas  on  you,  Bill 

Maecenas, 

And  all  that  I  got  was  a  drink  — 
A  pint  of  Old  Caecuban  Rye! 
My  verses  to  you'd  fill  a  volume. 

You  used   to   command  me,   but   now, 

y'understand  me, 
I've  quit  being  Marcus  O'Gink. 
27 


In  Other  Words 

Maecenas,  you  get  me,  I  hope. 
I  want  a  reply  to  my  queries; 
They're    plain    and  vocalic,  in  8-point 

italic, 

And  clear  as  a  midsummer  sky 
This,  then,  is  the  drift  of  my  dope: 
Do  I  get  a  seat  for  The  Series? 
Am  I  to  be  present  next  Sat.  if  it's 

pleasant? 
Maecenas,  I  pause  for  reply. 


28 


"Good-by,  My  Lover,  Good-by!" 

AD  PYKRHAM 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  5. 
"Quis  multa  gracilis  te  puer  in  rosa  — " 

0  pretty  Pyrrha,  false  as  fair, 

For  whom  dost  thou  do  up  thy  hair, 
Thy  crown  of  gold,  thy  shining  tresses? 
What  gracile  youth  gives  thee  caresses? 

Alas!    How  often  shall  he  find 

The  faithlessness  of  womankind ! 

As  who  should  say,  in  utter  wonder, 

"  How  fair  it  was!    Who  thought  of  thunder?  " 

Ah  —  wretched  they  that  think  thee  fair, 
Enmeshed  in  thy  seductive  snare ! 

1  vow,  by  Neptune,  ne'er  to  woo  thee 
Again,  for  I  am  jerry  to  thee. 


Thoughts   on   Matters    and  Things 

AD  GROSPHUM 

Horace:  Book  II,  Ode  16. 

"Otium  divos  rogat  impotenti 
Pressus  Mgao — " 

Grosphus,  a  guy  who's  sailing  in  a  tempest 
On  the  Aegean  when  the  moon  is  hidden  — 
He  wants  a  rest,  while  stewing  in  his  state 
room, 
Weary  and  seasick. 

Weary  of  war,  what  do  the  Thracians  yearn 

for? 
What  seek  the  Medes,  with  quivers  full  of 

arrows? 
What  can't  you  buy  with  purple,  gold  or 

rubies? 
Rest  is  the  answer. 

Not  Morgan's  cash,  nor  Rockefeller's  money, 
No  blue-and-brass  can  drive  away  the  willies 
Caused  by  the  care  of  elegant  apartments, 
Rugs  and  swell  ceilings. 
30 


Thoughts  on  Matters  and  Things 

Wise  the  gazabe  upon  whose  simple  table 
Old-fashioned    truck    like    salt-and-pepper 

castors 

Yet  may  be  found.    His  bean  is  never  both 
ered  — 
Sleeps  like  a  hallboy. 


Why  do  we  fuss  for  one  thing  and  another? 
Why  do  we  hike  to  Saranac  or  Newport? 
How  can  a  human  leave  himself  behind  him? 
Answer:  He  cannot. 


Worry  can  get  a  guy  on  the  Olympic ; 
Worry  can  chase  a  colonel  in  the  Army; 
Swift  as  the  wind,  to  use  a  new  expression 
Care  is  some  sprinter. 


Merry  and  bright,  the  citizen  who's  cheerful 
Won't  worry  much  about  to-morrow's  break 
fast. 
"No  one,"  he  smiles,  "who  faces  Time  the 

pitcher 
Wallops  one  thousand. " 


There  was  Achilles,  cut  off  in  his  twenties, 
And,  au  contraire,  Tithonus  was  a  hundred: 
I  may  be  lucky;  you  might  be  run  over 
Most  any  morning. 
31 


In  Other  Words 

You've  got  a  farm  with  fancy  sheep  and 

heifers; 
You've   got  a  mare  all   curry-combed  and 

glossy; 
Purple  silk  socks  and  purple  fancy  weskits  — 

You're  a  swell  dresser. 

And  what  has  Fate,  the  undeceitful,  slipped 

me? 

Only  a  small  apartment  out  in  Harlem, 
And,  with  a  trick  of  turning  snappy  Sapphics, 
Scorn  for  the  roughnecks. 


On  an  Upright  Life 

AD   ARISTIUM   FUSCUM 
Horace:  Book  I,  Ode  22. 

[Those  whom  the  original  verbiage  may  confuse  are 
advised  to  read  only  the  italics:  those  who  detest  our 
efforts  may  read  only  Q.  H.  Flaccus's  words,  set  of 
course  in  Roman;  and  the  rest  may  combine  them.] 

(Integer  vitae)  A  man  who's  on  the  level, 
(Non  eget  .  .  .  arcu)  He  needn't  have  a 

fear; 

(Nee  venenatis)  Not  arrows  of  the  devil 
(Fusee,  pharetra)  Can  harm  a  conscience 
clear  — 

(Sive  per  Syrtes)  Whether  he's  in  Peoria, 
(Sive  facturus)  New  York  or  Newtonville, 

(Caucasum  vel)  East  Orange  or  Emporia, 
(Lambit  Hydaspes)  Or  Pocahontas,  III. 

(Namque  me     ...     lupus)  For  once,  when 

I  was  singing, 
(Dum    meam     .     .     .    Lalagen)    A    wolf 

came  up  to  me; 

(Terminum  curis)  He  heard  my  lyric  ringing, 
(Fugit  inermem)  And  fled  immejitlee. 

33 


In  Other  Words 

(Quale  portentum.)  Believe  me,  he  was  some 
wolf, 

(Daunias  latis)  Not  wood  from  Noah's  Ark, 
(Nee  Jubae  tellus)  No  little  Daunian  bum  wolf 

(Arida  nutrix)  Like  those  in  Central  Park. 

(Pone  me,  pigris)  O  put  me  on  the  prairie, 
(Arbor  aestiva)  Or  let  me  hire  a  hall, 

Quod  latus  mundi)  Set  me  upon  Mt.  Airy, 
(Jupiter  urget)  Or  anywhere  at  all. 

(Pone  sub  curru)  Still  I,  on  the  equator, 
(Solis    .     .     .    negata)   At  ninety  in  the 

shade, 

(Dulce  ridentem)  Shall  love  —  a  poor  trans 
lator  — 

(Dulce    loquentem)     My    sweetly    smiling 
maid. 


34 


The  Stinging  of  V*  Catullus,  Esq. 
(Which  is  his  yoth  Ode,  dry-cleaned  and  rekalsomined) 

Myrtilla  says  that  there  is  none 

So  strong,  so  fine,  so  cavalierly, 
From  New  Rochelle  to  Evanston, 
As  yours  sincerely. 

She  says  that  no  one  else  is  half 

So  utterly  attractive  to  her, 
That  she'd  give  Jove  himself  the  laugh 
If  he  should  woo  her. 

I  say  she  SAYS  so     .     .     .     Ah,  I  find 

The  words  of  Eve's  most  lovely  daughter 
Ought  to  be  written  on  the  wind 
In  running  water! 


35 


V.  Catullus  Said  in  Part: 

(Being  a  shy  at  the  Fifty-first  Ode.) 

Whose  seat  is  opposite  to  thine, 
My  Lesbia,  seems  to  me  divine; 
For  it  were  heaven  to  be  so  near  thee, 
To  gaze  upon  thee  and  to  hear  thee. 

But,  lowlife  lyrist  that  I  am, 

I  see  thee,  and  am  like  a  clam; 

My  tongue  is  mute;  my  heart's  a  lead  one; 

Sight,  hearing  fail  me  —  I'm  a  dead  one! 


56 


The  Mathematics  of  Catullus 

Ode  7. 

"Quacris  quot  mihi  basiationes 
Tuae,  Lesbia  j  sini  satis,  supergue?" 

Lesbia,  you  would  have  me  state 

What  the  number  is 
Of  the  times  to  osculate. 
Let  your  pote  approximate, 

Namely,  t'wit,  and  viz: 

Lesbia,  count  the  sands  that  lie 

On  the  spicy  shore; 
Sum  the  stars  that  in  the  sky 
Coruscate;  and  multiply 

That  by  thousands  more  — 

That,  O  sweetest  of  your  sex, 

Fails  the  full  amount. 
Let  the  total  number  vex 
All  the  jealous  rubbernex 

Trying  to  keep  count! 


Catullus  to  His  Knockets 

AD  AURELIUM  ET  FURIUM 
Ode  16. 

If  now  and  then  I  spill  a  pome 
That  seems  too  peppery  for  a  paper 

Subscribers  take  into  The  Home  — 
Too  filled  with  chili  sauce  and  caper  — 

Because  I'm  fresh  and  will  not  shut  up 

You  think  that  I'm  an  awful  cut-up. 

A  poet  in  the  major  league 

Must  lead  a  life  above  suspicion, 

Though  he  may  write  of  love,  intrigue, 
Society  and  prohibition. 

His  stuff  has  got  to  be  so  snappy 

That  it  will  make  all  ages  happy. 

Cease,  lowlifes,  then,  to  lamp  my  line; 

Your  knocking  never  shall  upset  me. 
I  lyricize  of  love  and  wine, 

And  those  who  care  for  such  will  get  me. 
And  you  who  don't  —  oh,  yes,  I  mean  you, 
Aurelius,  Furius  —  I'll  bean  you! 


Handing  It  to  Cynthia 

Propertius:  Book  II,  Elegy  5. 

" Hoc  verutnst,  tola  le  ferri  Cynthia  Roma 
Et  non  ignota  vivere  nequitia?  " 

0  Cynthia,  tell  me,  is  it  true 

That  you're  not  acting  fit  to  print? 

That  Roman  clubdom  talks  of  you 
And  whispers  things  I  may  not  hint? 

What  has  this  gossip  of  the  street  meant? 

Do  I  deserve  that  sort  of  treatment? 

Tush!  I  shall  seek  some  other  skirt 
Who  loves  to  lamp  her  printed  name 

In  poems  written  by  Propert. 
Me  for  a  grateful  kind  of  dame. 

Before  you  get  a  chance  to  con  me, 

I'll  do  it  —  while  the  peeve  is  on  me. 

For  lovers'  quarrels  disappear 
As  clouds  before  the  southern  wind, 

Wherefore  I  say,  let's  cut  it  here, 
Before  we  knot  the  ties  that  bind. 

You'll  weep  and  wail  and  sob  and  sorrow, 

But  you'll  forget  it  all  to-morrow. 


In  Other  Words 

I  shall  not  biff  you  with  a  brick 
Nor  pull  your  hair.  I  scorn  to  spleen. 

I  leave  such  actions  to  the  hick 
Who  wears  no  laurel  on  his  bean. 

Far  subtler  you  shall  find  my  curses; 

Your  cheek  shall  pale  at  these  here  verses ! 


40 


The  Beefing  of  S.  Propertius,  Esq. 

AD  TULLUM 

Book  I,  Elegy  i. 

"Cynthia    prima    suis    miserum    me    cepitocellis — " 

Cynthia  first  and  the  wonderful  eyes  of  her 
Taught    me    the    meaning    of    Love    and 

Romance; 
Now  I  have  sung  to  the  stars  and  the  skies  of 

her  — 
Love  has  diluted  the  pride  of  my  glance. 

Ah!  'tis  a  year,  yet  the  madness  diminishes 

Never  a  fraction,  a  tittle,  or  jot, 
Though  I  anticipate  well  what  the  finish  is, 

Though  I  bewail  my  unfortunate  lot. 

Tullus,  Milanion  traveled  the  universe 
Till  Atalanta  was  thrall  to  his  heart, 

Futile  my  pleading  and  vain  is  my  tuny  verse, 
Zero's  the  sum  of  my  amorous  art. 

Witches  that  lure  by  some  sorcery-ritual 
Luna  right  down  from  the  regular  sky, 

I  shall  concede  that  your  power  is  habitual 
An  ye  make  Cynthia  paler  than  I ! 

41 


In  Other  Words 

And,  O  my  friends  who  have  warned  me  too 
tardily, 

Let  me  but  utter  the  truth  in  my  mind, 
I'll  endure  iron  and  suffer  foolhardily     .     .     . 

Luck,  wedded  friends  I  am  leaving  behind! 

No   luck   for   me    ...     Here  is   counsel 
gratuitous : 

Cleave  to  your  true  love  forever  plus  aye; 
Else,  if  your  path  be  a  trifle  circuitous, 

How  you'll  remember  my  words  of  to-day! 


Indorsing  a  w*  k.  Emotion 

AD  TULLUM 

Propertius:  Book  I,  Elegy  14. 
"Tu    licet    abjectus    Tibernia    molliter   undo, — " 

Though  by  the  Tiber  you  recline, 

Luxurious,  inert,  supine, 

Drinking  five  quarts  of  Lesbian  wine, 

Or  six. 

I'm  in  the  know,  grab  this  from  me: 
That,  and  the  wealth  of  Old  Johndee 
Plus  seven  multiplied  by  three, 

Is  nix. 

Nope.    Me  for  Love.    When  I'm  with  Cynth, 
I,  modest  writer  of  this  Plinth, 
Am  jutht  ath  good  ath  any  printh; 

And,  say, 

If  she  should  suddenly  grow  cold, 
What  then  would  help  Pierp  Morgan's  gold? 
By  millions  could  I  be  cajoled? 

Nay,  nay! 


43 


Properties  Confesses 

AD  DEMIPHONEM 
Book  II,  Elegy  18. 

"Scis  here  mi  multas  pariter  placuisse  puellas. 
Scis  mihi,  Demophoon—" 

You  know,  my  Dem,  that  each  p.  M.  I  comb  the 

gay  Rialto 
(Posterity  will  say  I  was  a  James  Buchanan 

Brady, 
And  any  frail  can  have  my  kale,  soprano  or 

contralto  — 

You're  c.  to  k.  the  reason  why  my  theme  is 
only  Lady. 

Tush:  ask  a  guy  the  reason  why  the  days  are 

short  in  winter, 
And  ask  him  why  is  water  wet  and  why's  a 

ballet  dancer, 
And  where's  the  snow  of  long  ago,  or  ask  why 

is  a  printer  — 

Old  top,  it's  just  my  temp'rament.    There 
ain't  no  other  answer. 


Roman  Innuendo 

Martial:  Book  I,  Epigram  72. 

O  Fidentinus,  when  you  steal  — 

My  words  are  chosen  and  impartial  — 

My  stuff,  it  is  a  phony  deal 
You  put  across  on  M.  V.  Martial. 

Thus  Aegle  thinks  the  teeth  she  wears, 

So  sozodontalish  and  pearly, 
Are  hers;  thus  black  Lycoris  swears, 

Daubed  with  white  lead,  she  is  Some  Girlie. 

Bard  of  the  Mrs.  Harris  school, 

(This  stanza  should  be  double-leaded), 

As  you're  a  poet  now,  so  you'll 
Have  lots  of  hair  when  you're  bald-headed! 


45 


To  Julia,  on  June  2J 

[In  the  Elizabethan  manner.] 

ill  a0&e0t  of  me  tofip  to*ta|?t 
$@P  3fuliat  I  Ho  lobe  tfcrr  moe; 
Sinn  tfcou  art  fain  to  fcsbr  mee  sair 
SCJtierr fore  3  am  affecten  0oe. 

Sin  thou  tooulDst  toit  tl?r  rea0oun  of 

B'ta;  be r ing  more  Here 
otfjerttme,  it  i0,  mp  lobe, 
Ionge0t  tap  of  all  the  pere* 


46 


Martial's  Bit  of  a  Joke 

Epigrams  II,  38. 

Linus,  you  are  C2k 
What  I  grow  from  day  to  day 
At  my  Sabine  spot  suburban. 
Pipe  —  and  paste  it  in  your  turban; 

Try  it  on  your  piccolo, 
Linus:  this  is  what  I  grow: 
(Get  my  snappy  repartee,  you) 
Happy  that  I  do  not  see  you. 


47 


A    Ballade    of    Known    and    Unknown 
Matters 

BY  FRANCOIS  VILLON 

[EDITOR'S  NOTE:  One  of  the  things  we  know  less 
than  we  do  others  is  how  to  translate  French.  And  so, 
to  translate  another  of  Mons.  Villon's  refrains,  "We  cry 
you  mercy,  every  one."] 

I'm  not  a  simp;  I'm  not  a  joe; 

I'm  on  when  cream  is  full  of  flies. 
By  what  they  wear  I  always  know 

A  lot  about  these  dressy  guys. 

I  know  the  black  from  sunny  skies; 
I  know  a  staller  from  a  pep; 

I  know  the  phony  from  the  prize  — 
But  to  myself  I  am  not  hep. 

I'm  jerry  to  the  fashions,  bo; 

I  cop  the  clerics  by  their  ties; 
I  know  the  chieftain  from  Poor  Lo, 

And  cherry  tarts  from  blueb'ry  pies. 

I  know  the  con  men  and  the  Cys; 
I  know  "Both  gates!"   and   "Watch  your 
step!"; 

I  know  the  Bourbons  from  the  ryes  — 
But  to  myself  I  am  not  hep. 
48 


A  BalUde  of  Matters 

A  dray  is  not  a  tally-ho ; 

(That  is  a  thing  I  realize). 
I  know  1 6  from  Double-O, 

Ben  Davises  from  Northern  Spies. 

I  know  some  frails  who  have  some  eyes; 
I  know  the  honey  from  the  skep ; 

I  know  just  how  to  balladize, 
But  to  myself  I  am  not  hep. 

L'ENVOI. 

Prince,  I  am  Jeremiah  Wise, 

Clutch  it  from  me,  that  is  my  rep: 

Excepting  only  this  revise: 
But  to  myself  I  am  not  hep. 


The  Translated  Way 


"  Wenn  ich  in  deine  Augen  seh', 

So  schwindet  all  mein  Leid  und  weh  " 

When  I  into  your  eyes  do  see 
So  goes  away  my  woe  from  me, 
And,  too,  when  I  your  mouth  do  kiss 
So  gains  my  health  a  benefice. 

When  I  upon  your  bosom  lie 
It  comes  o'er  me  like  joy  from  sky, 
And  when  you  speak  it:  "I  love  thee!" 
So  must  I  weep  quite  bitterly. 

II 

"Ich  hab*  im  Traum  geweinet." 

I  have  in  a  dream  been  weeping, 

Medreamt  thou  didst  lie  underground, 

Then  wakened  I  up  and  the  tears  flowed 
Still  down  from  my  cheek  all  around. 

I  have  in  a  dream  been  weeping, 
Medreamt  thou  didst  me  forget, 

Then  wakened  I  up,  I  continued 
Crying  long,  bitterly  yet. 
50 


The  Translated  Way 

I  have  in  a  dream  been  weeping, 

Medreamt  thou  wert  to  me  yet  good, 

Then  wakened  I  up  and  still  always 
My  tears  did  come  down  in  flood. 

Ill 

"H8r  ich  das  Liedchen  klingen, 
Das  einst  die  Liebste  sang, 

Hear  I  the  songlet  singing 
That  once  the  dearest  sang, 

From  out  my  breast  upspringing 
There  comes  wild  painful  pang. 

Impels  me  one  dark  languish 
That  high  wood  to  attain, 

Dissolves  in  teardrops'  anguish 
My  extraordinary  pain. 

IV 

"Was  will  die  einsame  Thraene  ?" 

What  wants  the  teardrop  single? 

She  mists  my  glance  with  pains. 
She  back  from  olden  times  yet 

Within  mine  eye  remains. 

She  had  many  glittering  sisters 
WTio  all  have  taken  flight, 

With  my  torments  and  my  gladnesses 
Dissolved  they  in  wind  and  night. 

Like  clouds  have  disappeared,  also, 
The  diminutive  stars  so  blue 

That  in  every  torment  and  gladness 
My  heart  would  smile  into. 
51 


In  Other  Words 

Oh,  likewise  my  love  has  vanished 

Like  to  a  trifling  sigh, 
Though  old,  individual  teardrop, 

Now  too,  disappear,  pray  I! 


The  Height  of  Disagrceableness 

A  window  rattling  in  the  night 
When  I  am  fain  for  sleep 

Gives  me,  I  own,  a  sort  of  fright, 
And  makes  my  flesh  to  creep. 

A  discord  jars  my  very  soul; 

A  peach-skin  makes  me  feel 
As  low  within  the  depths  of  dole 

As  a  dentist's  emery  wheel. 

The  brakes  upon  a  Broadway  car; 

A  cat;  a  crying  child; 
The  filing  of  a  saw  —  these  are 

Some  things  that  drive  me  wild. 

But  of  all  creepy  things  accursed, 
Of  various  kinds  and  brands, 

I  hold  this  as  the  very  worst : 
A  barber  with  cold  hands. 


53 


As  to  Eyes 

Lady,  better  bards  than  I, 

Poets  of  an  elder  day, 
Seemed  to  love  to  versify 

On  "her  eyes,"  or  blue  or  gray. 

'T  is  an  oft-recurrent  theme 
For  the  bards  who  rhapsodize; 

Not  a  one  but  used  to  dream 
Of  the  loveliness  of  eyes. 

Shelley,  Tennyson  and  Keats, 
Swinburne,  Byron,  Moore  and  Burns 

All  had  visual  conceits, 
All  had  various  optic  yearns. 

Far  from  me  to  mimimize 

Elder,  better  bards,  except 
This:  they  spoke  of  lady's  eyes 

Haunting  them  what  time  they  slept. 

Envy  I  those  troubadours. 

I  am  such  a  helpless  thrall, 
Lady,  when  I  think  of  yours, 

I  —  I  cannot  sleep  at  all. 


The  Truth  About  the  Spratts 

As  to  the  meat  that  was  upon 
The  J.  Spratts'  bill-of-fare  — 

Now,  Mrs.  Spratt  liked  hers  well  done 
While  Jack  preferred  his  rare. 

Jack  Spratt  liked  lots  of  light, 

His  wife  desired  it  dim, 
For  her  the  shaded  lamp  and  low  — 

The  325  for  him. 

Jack  Spratt  liked  lots  of  air, 
All  windows  opened  wide, 

While  Mrs.  S.  detested  draughts  — 
"This  flat  is  cold!"  she  cried. 

Jack  Spratt  liked  comedies. 

The  missus  liked  to  weep 
At  dismal  dramas,  such  as  put 

Her  lawful  spouse  to  sleep. 

John  Spratt,  he  hated  bridge; 

His  consort  was  a  fiend. 
Who  always  would  suggest  a  game 

Whenever  friends  convened. 
55 


In  Other  Words 

J.  Spratt  liked  keeping  house, 
His  wife  preferred  to  board. 

"Nothing  like  that  for  Colonel  Spratt! " 
Declared  her  liegest  lord. 

Jack  Spratt  was  all  for  prose, 
His  wife  was  all  for  rhyme; 

And  so  betwixt  them  both,  you  see, 
They  had  a  helova  time. 


56 


Campaign  Thoughts 

This  is  a  presidential  year. 

(An  unassailable  reflection.) 
" Things  will  be  better,"  so  we  hear, 
"After  election." 

Now  comes  the  questing  of  the  Vote, 

The  Call  to  Arms,  the  Appeal  to  Reason, 
The  Keynote  Speech,  the  Clarion  Note  — 
This  is  the  season 

When  everywhere  and  roundabout, 

From  coast  to  coast,  and  vicy-versy, 
The  candidates  will  speak  and  spout, 
Sans  fear  or  mercy; 

When  from  the  Peerless  Pines  of  Maine 

To  California's  Pebbly  Beaches, 
We  are  enthralled  by  the  campaign, 
And  many  speeches. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  add  "enthralled," 

(Cf.  line  3,  above  tetrastich) 
As  Mr.  Ward  once  might  have  drawled 
Was  wrote  sarkastick. 
57 


In  Other  Words 

And  therefore  I  demand  a  word, 

A  message  to  This  Glorious  Nation. 
I  crave  the  right  of  being  heard 
On  Conservation. 

On  Conservation:  Not  of  trees 

Of  waterways,  or  fish,  or  horses  — 
Of  something  greater  far  than  these: 
Human  Resources 

Resources  wasted  in  campaigns, 

In  oratory  dry  and  juiceless. 
The  waste  of  energy  and  brains 
Strikes  me  as  useless. 

For  him  I'd  vote  who  said  " Enough! 

I  scorn  the  terrible  traditions 
Of  the  campaign.    I  leave  that  stuff 
To  politicians. " 

That's  all.    I  might  do  five  or  six 

More  stanzas,  but  I  find  it  dreary. 
Do  you  care  much  for  politics? 
They  make  me  weary. 


58 


Everybody's  Overdoing  It 

[Provoked  by  having  heard,  in  a  single  week,  "That 
Beautiful  Tune,"  "Alexander's  Ragtime  Band,"  "That 
Swaying  Harmony,"  "Banjo  Tunes,"  "That  Mesmer 
izing  Mendelssohn  Tune,"  "Play  Dat  Barbershop 
Chord, "  "Rum  Turn  Tiddle, "  " Pick,  Pick,  Pick  on  the 
Mandolin,"  "That  Haunting  Melody,"  "That  Coon- 
town  Quartette,"  "I  Love  to  Hear  an  Irish  Band  Play 
on  St.  Patrick's  Day,"  "That  Slippery  Slide  Trom 
bone,"  "The  Ragtime  Violin,"  "That  Mysterious 
Rag,"  "Mello-Cello  Melody,"  "That  Raggedy  Rag," 
"That  Chicken  Glide,"  "That  Dramatic  Rag,"  "That 
Italian  Serenade"  and  "Brass  Band  Ephraim  Jones."] 


Whenever  I  go  to  a  vo-da-vil  show  — 

A  thing  that  I  frequently  do  — 
The  stunts  that  I  see  which  are  pleasing  to  me 

Are  painfully,  fearfully  few. 
The  acrobats  eight  are  an  act  that  I  hate; 

The  monkeys  and  dogs  I  detest. 
And  the  comedy  kind  that  are  known  as  re 
fined 

Are  as  dull  as  an  almanac  jest. 
But  of  all  the  sad  things  that  variety  brings 

The  worst  of  the  wearisome  throng 
Is  the  fury  and  craze  of  these  "musical"  days: 

The  song  that  entreats  for  a  song. 
59 


In  Other  Words 

And  when  some  one  begins  to  demand  violins, 
Or  "That  Sinewy  So-and-So  Strain," 

I  want  to  get  out,  and,  departing,  to  shout 
The  following  earnest  refrain : 


CHORUS 

Cut  out  asking  for  that  ragtime  song 

As  played  by  that  melodious  coon ! 
Cease  to  bellow  for  that  syncopated  'cello ! 

Quit  teasing  for  that  tremulous  tune ! 
Stop  that  yearning  for  that  raggedy  rag ! 

Stop  asking  for  that  glidey  guff! 
Cut  out  this  thing  of  begging  folks  to  sing, 

And  cut  out  the  " Please-Play "  stuff! 


I've  heard  them  demand  a  harmonica  band; 

I've  heard  people  crave  a  cornet; 
And  even  "Play  some  on  that  old  kettle 
drum!" 

Or  "Fillip  that  flageolet!" 
I've  heard  singers  long  for  that  "Love's  Old 
Sweet  Song," 

And  yell  for  "That  Old  Time  Quadrille"; 
I've  heard  'em  insist  on  Puccini  and  Liszt, 

And  yearn  for  that  Trovatore  trill; 
They  ask  for  Bellini,  Balfe,  Wagner,  Rossini, 

The  while,  in  unscrupulous  zeal. 
The  people  who  "write"  a  new  song  in  a  night 

Grow  rich  on  the  tunes  that  they  steal. 
60 


Everybody's  Overdoing  It 

And  that's  why  I  moan  in  this  querulous  tone, 
And  that's  what  is  deep  in  my  heart; 

And  if  one  should  beseech  me  to  offer  a  speech, 
I'd  do  it,  responding,  in  part: 

CHORUS. 

Cut  out  asking  for  that  "Magic  Flute," 

And  that  "Tannhauser"  overture! 
Cease  to  yell  for  that  "  William  Tell/' 

And  "The  Bride  of  Lammermoor!" 
Stop  that  music-hunger  all  around, 

Plenty  is  quite  Enough. 
Stop  your  praying  for  incessant  playing, 

And  cut  out  the  " Please-Sing "  stuff! 


61 


Baseball's  Sad  Lexicon 

These  are  the  saddest  of  possible  words: 

"Tinker  to  Evers  to  Chance." 
Trio  of  bear  cubs,  and  fleeter  than  birds, 

Tinker  and  Evers  and  Chance. 
Ruthlessly  pricking  our  gonfalon  bubble, 
Making  a  Giant  hit  into  a  double  — 
Words    that    are   heavy   with    nothing   but 
trouble: 

"Tinker  to  Evers  to  Chance." 


To  Myrtilla,  on  Opening  Day 

Myrtilla,  ere  the  season  starts, 
Or  e'er  the  primal  ball  be  thrown 

If  you  would  win  this  callous  heart's 
Affection  for  your  very  own, 

This  counsel,  blooming,  fresh  and  frondent  — 

Accept  it  from  your  correspondent. 

Back  in  the  days  of  Old  Cap  Anse 
'Twas  reckoned  cute  to  spoof  a  dame, 

And  famed  was  her  incognitance 
About  the  so-called  national  game; 

And  comment  feminine  was  silly. 

That  was  before  your  day,  Myrtilly. 

For,  now,  Myrtilla,  I  admit 

Your  knowledge  far  transcends  mine  own ; 
You  know  an  error  from  a  hit  — 

A  quaver  from  a  semitone; 
You  never  say  "How  small  the  bat  is!" 
You  never  have  to  ask  who  that  is. 

Nay,  Myrt,  too  well  you  like  the  game; 

You  are  too  true  a  devotee; 
My  Blue-Print  is  the  kind  of  dame 

Whose  love  is  less  for  ball  than  me; 
And  so,  my  Myrt,  that  is  the  reason 
I  think  I'll  go  alone  this  season. 
63 


A  Ballplayer's  Day 

"Sweet  are  the  uses  of  advertisement." 

OLD  SONG 

The  famous  pitcher  woke  at  eight 

To  one  of  GUFF'S  ALARUM    CLOCKS, 
Put  on  a  suit  of  AERO-GREAT, 

And  donned  a  pair  of  SILKO-SOX. 

Then,  lathered  well  with  SMEAREM'S  SOAP, 
He   shaved  with   BOREM'S   RUSTLESS 
BLADE; 

Did  on  a  suit  of  heliotrope  — 
THE  KAMPUS  KUT  in  every  shade. 

Then  berries  served  with  JORDAN'S  CREAM 
And  eggs  from  BUNKEM'S  DAIRY 
FARM; 

Then,  as  he  read  THE  MORNING  SCREAM, 
He  smoked  a  pipe  of  LUCKY  CHARM. 

Then,  donning  one  of  BEANEM'S  HATS, 

He  rode  out  in  his  WHATSTHECAR; 
Played  ball;    then    home    to     RENTEM'S 

FLATS 

To  smoke  a  SHUTEMOUT  CIGAR. 
64 


A  Ballplayer's  Day 

He  listened  to  his  WAXAPHONE, 

Then  lay  —  ending  his  day  so  rough  — 
Upon  a  mattress  widely  known. 

***** 

But,  at  the  price,  I've  said  enough. 


Ever  See  Her? 

There  was  a  little  fluff, 
And  she  wore  a  little  puff 

And  a  rat  made  of  shoddy  and  of  cotton. 
When  they  were  there 
She  looked  very,  very  fair, 

And  when  they  were  off  she  looked  rotten. 


65 


A  Ballad  of  Baseball  Burdens 

The  burden  of  hard  hitting.     Slug  away 
Like  Honus  Wagner  or  like  Tyrus  Cobb. 

Else  fandom  shouteth:  "Who  said  you  could 

play? 

Back  to  the  jasper  league,  you  minor  slob!" 
Swat,  hit,  connect,  line  out,  get  on  the  job. 

Else  you  shall  feel  the  brunt  of  fandom's  ire 
Biff,  bang  it,  clout  it,  hit  it  on  the  knob  — 

This  is  the  end  of  every  fan's  desire. 


The  burden   of  good  pitching.    Curved  or 
straight. 

Or  in  or  out,  or  haply  up  or  down, 
To  puzzle  him  that  standeth  by  the  plate, 

To  lessen,  so  to  speak,  his  bat-renown: 

Like  Christy  Mathewson  or  Miner  Brown, 
So  pitch  that  every  man  can  but  admire 

And  offer  you  the  freedom  of  the  town  — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  fan's  desire. 


A  Ballad  of  Baseball  Burdens 

The  burden  of  loud  cheering.     O  the  sounds ! 
The   tumult  and  the   shouting   from   the 

throats 
Of  forty  thousand  at  the  Polo  Grounds 

Sitting,  ay,  standing  sans  their  hats  and 

coats. 

A  mighty  cheer  that  possibly  denotes 
That  Cub  or  Pirate  fat  is  in  the  fire; 
Or,  as  H.  James  would  say,  We've  got  their 

goats  — 
This  is  the  end  of  every  fan's  desire. 

The  burden  of  a  pennant.    O  the  hope, 
The  tenuous  hope,  the  hope  that's  half  a 
fear, 

The  lengthy  season  and  the  boundless  dope, 
And  the  bromidic;  "Wait  until  next  year." 
O  dread  disgrace  of  trailing  in  the  rear, 

O  Piece  of  Bunting,  flying  high  and  higher 
That  next  October  it  shall  flutter  here: 

This  is  the  end  of  every  fan's  desire. 

ENVOY 

Ah,  Fans,  let  not  the  Quarry  but  the  Chase 

Be  that  to  which  most  fondly  we  aspire! 
For  us  not  Stake,  but  Game;  not  Goal,  but 

Race  — 
THIS  is  the  end  of  every  fan's  desire. 


67 


John  Jones,  Clerk 

John  Jones,  he  was  a  faithful  clerk 

As  any  now  alive; 
You'd  always  find  him  at  his  work 

From  eight  o'clock  till  five. 

Without  a  single  minute's  loss 
He  worked  the  tedious  days, 

Till  once  he  said:  "I'll  strike  the  boss 
For  just  a  little  raise. " 

"Why,  Jones,"  replied  the  Leader  then, 

"How  can  you  be  so  base? 
WThy,  I  could  get  a  hundred  men 

To-day  to  take  your  place." 

So  Jones  apologized,  and  turned 

Back  to  his  daily  books, 
Until  his  nature  fairly  yearned 

For  fields  and  trees  and  brooks. 

"I  need  a  rest,"  requested  Jones, 
"Please,  sir,  may  I  be  spared?" 

Whereat  the  Boss  in  honeyed  tones 
Accordingly  declared: 
68 


John  Jones,  Clerk 

"Why,  John,  old  chap,  I'd  like  to  let 

You  off  for  half  a  year; 
But  how  would  this  old  business  get 

Along  without  you  here?  " 


One  More 

Another  difference,  meseems, 
Betwixt  the  twain,  forsooth; 

The  optimist  has  illusions, 
The  pessimist  knows  the  truth. 


"And  the    Only    Tune    that  He   Could 
Play" 

Jane,  Jane,  my  upstairs  neighbor, 
Learned  to  play  with  lots  of  labor, 
But  the  only  thing  she  ever  would  play 
Was  the  sextet  from  "Lu-ci-a." 

Tom,  Tom,  the  man  below, 
Plays  for  hours  on  the  pi-an-o, 
Plays  no  tune  but  the  "Melody  in  F," 
And  only  that  in  the  treble  clef. 

Across  the  court  is  a  Fair  Unknown 
Who  loves  to  listen  to  the  Talkiphone, 
And  the  only  record  she  cares  to  spring 
Is  that  "Every  Little  Movement"  thing. 

Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary, 

Loves  to  practise  the  "  Miserere  "; 

Ben,  Ben,  the  gink  next  door  us, 

Knows  no  tune  but  "The  Pilgrims'  Chorus." 


70 


Thorns,  Rifts,   Clouds,  Flaws,  Blemishes, 
Etc, 

["The  attitude  of  mind  I  have  always  believed  in,  is 
to  answer,  when  anybody  says  how  ugly  Mrs.  Blank's 
nose  is,  'Yes,  but  hasn't  she  a  lovely  complexion?'"  — 
KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN.] 

Would  I  were  constructed  so ! 

Would  I  failed  to  find  the  flaws! 
But  when  people  talk  of  Poe 

With  consid'able  applause 
I  concede  that  he  was  There; 

That  his  name  is  deep  engraven 
On  the  scroll;  "But,"  I  declare, 

"I  can't  see  much  in  'The  Raven.'" 


People  prate  of  Dry  den's  dope, 

But  his  rhymes  were  often  false; 
There  are  some  good  things  in  Pope, 

But  his  meter  often  halts. 
Take  the  things  that  Wordsworth  wrote, 
Some  —  I  hate  to  hurl  the  hammer  — 
Are  not  worthy  of  a  pote ; 

Shelley  made  some  slips  in  grammar. 
71 


In  Other  Words 

Horace  Greeley  wrote  a  fist 

That  a  comp.  could  never  read; 
Byron  —  yes,  if  you  insist, 

He  could  write,  I  will  concede  — 
But  his  private  history 

Was  a  riot  and  a  panic  — 
Inexcusable  by  me, 

Stern,  unbending,  Puritanic. 

Would  I  sensed  a  Thornless  Rose! 

Would  I  heard  a  Riftless  Lute! 
Would,  despite  that  lady's  nose, 

I  could  say  "But  she's  a  beaut." 
Would  that  I  might  ever  see 

But  the  True,  the  Fair,  the  Youthful! 
Would  —  oh,  would  that  I  might  be 

Optimistic  —  and  untruthful! 


"May  Recover " 

There  was  a  man  in  our  town, 
And  he  was  wondrous  hot; 

He  jumped  into  a  Broadway  bar 
For  the  contents  of  a  hot. 

And  when  he  found  it  made  him  warm 
To  drink  of  Scotch  or  rye, 

He  jumped  into  another  bar 
Another  drink  to  buy. 


73 


As  John  Howard  Payne  said  — 

There's  a  popular  impression  tantamount  to 

an  obsession, 

We  have  read  of  it  in  article  and  pome, 
That  vacationers  returning  undergo  a  lot  of 
yearning 

To  be  home. 

We  have  seen  a  lot  of  verses  on  the  emptiness 

of  purses 
Caused  by  going  to  the  mountain  or  the 

shore, 

How  the  dolce  far  niente  thing  is  often  more 
than  plenty, 

And  a  bore. 

Wheeze  and  whimsy,  fact  and  fable  on  the 

poorness  of  the  table, 

Gag  and  giggle  on  the  hardness  of  the  bed  — 
Of  the  myriad  deprivations  to  the  goers  on 
vacations 

We  have  read. 

As  to  all  that  sort  of  patter  touching  on  va 
cation  matter, 

We  arise  in  modest  wise  to  interject 
That  the  folks  who  knock  the  rural  thing  — 
or  things,  to  make  it  plural  — 
Arc  correct. 
74 


For  the  Other  364  Days 

Christmas  is  over.  Uncork  your  ambition! 
Back  to  the  battle!  Come  on,  competition! 
Down  with  all  sentiment,  can  scrupulosity! 
Commerce  has  nothing  to  gain  by  jocosity; 
Money  is  all  that  is  worth  all  your  labors; 
Crowd  your  competitors,  nix  on  your  neigh 
bors! 

Push  'em  aside  in  a  passionate  hurry, 
Argue  and  bustle  and  bargain  and  worry! 
Frenzy  yourself  into  sickness  and  dizziness  — 
Christmas  is  over  and  Business  is  Business. 


75 


Us  Potcs 

Swift  was  sweet  on  Stella; 

Poe  had  his  Lenore; 
Burns's  fancy  turned  to  Nancy 

And  a  dozen  more. 

Pope  was  quite  a  trifler; 

Goldsmith  was  a  case; 
Byron'd  flirt  with  any  skirt 

From  Liverpool  to  Thrace. 

Sheridan  philandered; 

Shelley,  Keats,  and  Moore 
All  were  there  with  some  affair 

Far  from  lit'rachoor. 

Fickle  is  the  heart  of 

Each  immortal  bard. 
Mine  alone  is  made  of  stone  — 

Gotta  work  too  hard. 


78 


Footiight  Motifs 

ANNA  HELD 

I  shall  not  praise  your  Gallic  ways, 
Nor  say  that  you  are  sweet; 

Nor  even  tell  about  the  spell 
That  brings  me  to  your  feet. 


I  shall  devise  about  your  eyes. 
Nor  precious  words  nor  choice; 

I  shall  not  print  a  single  hint 
In  honor  of  your  voice. 


I  shall  not  sing  of  anything 
That  makes  me  genuflect; 

Nor  grace  nor  air,  nor  face  nor  hair 
In  brief,  hi  no  respect. 


I  shall  not  praise  the  heldian  ways. 

If  you  must  know,  forsooth  — 
Because  that  I  detest  a  lie, 

And  aim  to  print  the  truth. 

77 


In  Other  Words 

EMMY  WEHLEN 

Lady  stars  from  oversea, 
Twinkling  in  our  firmament. 

Small  the  smash  you  make  with  me 
Be  you  ne'er  so  prominent. 

Keener  critics  may  adore  you; 

Frankly,  though,  I'm  seldom  for  you. 

I  was  never  one  who  raved 
O'er  the  pseudo-picturesque 

Nor,  though  young,  was  I  enslaved 
By  the  art  of  H.  Modjesk.; 

And  I  own  I  do  not  care  a 

Lot  about  the  Perfect  Sarah. 

Polish  ladies  leave  me  cold; 

Dames  Italian  warm  me  not; 
And,  if  further  truth  be  told, 

I'm  electrified  no  jot, 
Trifle,  fragment,  ohm,  iota, 
By  th'  entire  foreign  quota. 

But,  however,  still  and  yet, 

Maugre  all  my  prejudice 
I  am  not  so  firmly  set 

That  I  will  not  yield  in  this: 
If  I  like  a  lady's  way,  so 
Help  me  Robert,  I  will  say  so ! 
78 


Footlight  Motifs 

Fairy,  elfin,  pixie,  sprite, 

Naiad,  hamadryad,  fay, 
Witch  and  Phantom  of  Delight 

Such-a-little  flow'r-o'-May, 
Emmy  Wehlen,  more  than  pretty 
Subject  of  this  Deathless  Ditty! 

Wherefore  I  should  like  to  hint, 

Caring  not  if  it  be  seen, 
Here  and  now  in  public  print, 

She's  considerable  queen. 
Nothing's  left  in  my  thesaurus  — 
She's  a  peach,  believe  me,  Mawruss. 


EVA   TANGUAY 

Tell  me  not,  in  boastful  hollers, 
What  her  salary  may  be; 

Though  it  be  a  million  dollars 
It  is  all  the  same  to  me. 

Though  the  universal  rumor 
Place  her  at  the  top  of  fun, 

To  my  narrow  mind,  of  humor 
She  has  absolutely  none. 

Lives  of  actresses  remind  us, 
We  can  make  an  awful  Hit, 

If  we  only  put  behind  us 
All  our  Piety  and  Wit. 
79 


In  Other  Words 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  pounding 
Piffle  of  the  kind  that  flaunts 

Its  inanity  astounding! 

"Give  the  public  what  it  wants!" 


THE  CLASSIC  DANCE 

Isadora,  when  you  dance 
I  am  bounden  by  no  thrall, 

And  the  Rhythm  of  old  Romance 
Surges  o'er  me  not  at  all. 

Critics  with  a  keener  eye, 
Judges  with  a  broader  view, 

Tell  me  that  your  Art  is  high  — 
Wonderful  the  things  you  do. 

Banal  I  and  low  my  brow, 
And  my  bean  is  built  of  bone, 

For  allegiance  I  vow 
To  Montgomery  and  Stone. 


KITTY  GORDON 

"It  is  not  beauty  I  demand, 
A  crystal  brow,  the  moon's  despair, 

Nor  the  snow's  daughter,  a  white  hand, 
Nor  mermaid's  yellow  pride  of  hair. " 

These  lyric  lines  are  not  my  own; 

They're  by  an  elder  bard,  unknown. 
80 


Footlight  Motifs 

And  then  he  sings  of  lips  and  eyes, 
"A  bloomy  pair  of  vermeil  cheeks," 

Counting  her  charms  in  ancient  wise, 
As  was  the  custom  of  the  Greeks; 

He  ends  his  catalogue,  whereat 

"They  are  but  gauds,"  he  says  —  like  that. 

Which  —  pardon  my  discursive  style, 
(Tis  thus  the  British  rhymers  do; 

No  vulgar  haste  to  coax  the  smile. 
[I  rather  like  the  plan.  Do  you?]) 

Which,  as  I  started  out  to  say 

Before  this  unforeseen  delay  — 

Which  brings  me,  after  false  alarms 
And  haltings,  to  this  theme  of  mine: 

In  brief,  to  Kitty  Gordon's  charms 
Gold,  ivory  and  incarnadine. 

She  is,  meseems,  a  gaudy  star 

Cold,  distant,  bright  —  and  there  you  are. 

MARY  GARDEN 

Mary  had  a  little  voice, 

(Unless  the  crits  are  wrong), 
And  everywhere  that  Mary  went 

She  took  the  voice  along. 

It  followed  her  upon  the  stage 

(Which  isn't  far  from  fact), 
It  made  the  audience  applaud 

To  see  Miss  Mary  act. 
81 


In  Other  Words 

They  crowded  to  the  opery  house; 

They  filled  each  row  and  tier; 
And  clapped  their  hands  and  split  their  gloves 

When  Mary  did  appear. 

"What  makes  the  folks  love  Mary  so?" 

The  eager  public  cry, 
"Why,  Mary  is  the  earth's  best  show!" 

And  that's  no  Barnum  lie. 


Revised 

When  the  pillow's  warm  and  the  sheet  is 

torrid, 
When  you  put  cold  towels  on  your  fervid  f ore- 

When    the    breeze    won't    blow,    when    the 

moments  creep, 

When  you  toss  all  night  and  you  get  no  sleep  — 
It's  hot,  by  George,  it's  hot! 


The  Lost  Wheeze 

Seated  last  night  at  my  table 

I  was  laboring  for  a  laugh 
To  work  into  this  here  colyum, 

In  the  form  of  a  paragraph. 

I  know  not  what  I  was  thinking, 
Or  what  was  within  my  brain, 

But  I  struck  one  chord  of  humor 
That  was  better  than  all  Mark  Twain. 

It  flooded  my  littered  table 
And  my  chair  of  mission  oak, 

And  I  said,  in  my  modest  manner, 
To  myself  "That  is  sure  some  joke!" 

It  quieted  pain  and  sorrow 

Like  love  overcoming  strife, 
It  made  me  forget  the  premium 

Due  on  my  well-known  life. 

It  would  have  made  me  famous 

All  over  the  East  and  West, 
All  people  would  have  pointed 

To  the  Author  of  that  Great  Jest 

83 


In  Other  Words 

I  have  sought,  but  I  seek  it  vainly, 
That  one  Lost  Wheeze  divine 

That  one  last  word  in  humor, 
That  was- to-be-deathless  line! 

It  may  be  that  Death's  bright  Angel 
Will  slip  me  that  joke,  I  guess, 

But  that  does  me  no  good  this  morning 
When  the  page  is  going  to  press. 


84 


From  an  Awningless  Sanctum 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade? 

MILTON. 

Dear  Amaryllis  (you  mentioned  in  "Lycidas  "), 
I'm  no  philanderer,  truly  I'm  not, 

But  in  this  office  it's  sticky  and  viscid  as 
Crab-apple  jelly  and  ten  times  as  hot. 

Sternly  forbidding,  austere,  puritanical, 
That  is  my  nature,  unardent,  severe; 

Yet,  though  the  bulk  of  my  verse  is  mechanical 
This,  Amaryllis,  is  warmly  sincere. 

Dear  Amaryllis,  I  hereby  import  with  you: 
'Ryllie,  wo  wohnst  du,  proverbial  maid? 

Tell  me,  for,  oh,  I  am  anxious  to  sport  with 

you, 
If,  Amaryllis,  you'll  furnish  the  shade, 


"On  Christmas  Day  in  the  Morning: " 

Dreary  the  room  where  dun  Despair 
Sits  unmoved  in  a  broken  chair; 
Sad  is  the  home  where  Want,  confessed, 
Comes  to  the  board  a  daily  guest; 
And  a  woman  sits  and  gazes  and  weeps 
As  Innocence  in  the  cradle  sleeps. 
Bitter  and  hot  are  the  woman's  tears, 
And  strong  with  the  salt  of  hopeless  years, 
And  her  heart  is  heavy  with  Dread  and  Hate 
And  she  questions  Justice  whose  name  is  Fate; 
And  she  wonders,  too,  at  the  will  to  live, 
As  she  thinks  of  the  things  she  cannot  give. 

And  the  woman  weeps  in  her  selfish  woe, 
But  the  grief  of  another  she  may  not  know  — 
The  grief  of  another  she  knows  not  of  — 
Who  hath  nowhither  to  give  her  love. 


From  a  Par agrapher's  Garden  of  Verses 

In  winter,  when  I  have  to  write, 
I  hate  to  do  my  work  at  night ; 
In  summer,  quite  the  other  way, 
I  hate  to  have  to  write  by  day. 

What  time  the  year  is  at  the  spring, 
I  hate  to  work  like  anything; 
And  in  the  days  of  early  fall 
I  sort  of  hate  to  work  at  all. 

Oh,  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you 
That  people  should  have  work  to  do? 
But  I  cannot  afford  to  miss, 
And  so  I  pen  a  pome  like  this. 


87 


Gilbert 

Prince  of  the  lambent  and  elusive  smile, 
Dispenser  prodigal  of  light  and  cheer, 

Sweet  knight  that  sable  Care  dost  oft  beguile, 
Poet  of  Truth,  take  tribute  of  a  tear! 


88 


Lines  to  Margaret,  a  Singing  and 
Whistling  Cook 

Woman,  attend  my  warning; 

Hark  to  mine  ultimat; 
Done  by  my  hand  this  morning, 

Done  in  my  five-room  flat, 
Hark  to  this  warm  effusion, 

Ponder  on  what  I  write. 
This  is  my  firm  conclusion, 

Come  to  but  yesternight: 

Woman,  respect  my  wishes  — 

Can  you  not  cease  to  sing 
While  you  are  washing  dishes? 

You  are  an  Awful  Thing. 
Melody  is  not  in  you 

You  are  from  song  immune. 
Will  you  not  discontinue 

Trying  to  trail  a  tune? 

Peaceable  I  and  lawful; 

Dreadful  of  stress  and  strife; 
But  —  you  are  worse  than  awful, 

Spoiling  my  Joy  of  Life. 
Here  is  my  warning:  Cop  it. 

Ponder  it  con  and  pro. 
Woman,  unless  you  stop  it, 

ONE  OF  US  HAS  TO  GO. 

89 


A  Pathetic  Bit  of  a  Ballad 

"You  may  say  for  me, "  said  the  banker,  as  he 

sat  in  his  donjon  keep, 
"That  I  thank  the  public  for  all  they've  done 

and "  here  he  began  to  weep; 

And  the  sob  reporter  wrote  a  yarn  that  was 

destined  to  make  you  cry, 
And  those  who  read  said,  "It's  too  bad.    I'm 

sorry  for  him,  poor  guy!" 

The  sob  reporter  went  to  the  man  as  he  came 

from  the  prison  cell, 
And  the  man,  released,  said  "On  your  way! 

I  haven't  a  word  to  tell. " 
"But  the  people,"  the  sob  reporter  said,  "the 

people  want  to  know. " 
And  the  man  leaned  back  in  his  limousine  and 

uttered  a  loud  "Ho!  Ho!" 


90 


Song-  of  the  Costoiliving 
Taking  it  on  percentage  with  Tennyson. 

I  come  from  hunger  and  from  need: 

I  make  a  sudden  sally; 
I  soar  with  an  increasing  speed; 

I  scamper  up  an  alley. 

Up,  up  I  soar  in  eager  flight 
Beyond  the  wildest  rumors, 

Until  I  pass  beyond  the  sight 
Of  ultimate  consumers. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  fly, 
Of  ice  and  eggs  and  leather, 

And  what  makes  everything  so  high  - 
The  middlemen?    The  weather? 

Again  I  soar,  and  more  and  more, 
Into  the  heights  I  cherish; 

And  chortle  when  a  hundred  score, 
Who  cannot  see  me,  perish. 

I  rise,  I  soar,  I  dip,  I  fly  — 

Descend  to  earth?    Nay,  never! 

For  men  may  live  and  men  may  die, 
But  I  go  up  forever. 
91 


The  Old  Man's  Discomforts 

With  obeisances  to  the  estate  of  R.  Southey,  dec'd. 

"You  are  cold,  Father  William,"  the  young 

man  cried, 

"You  shiver  the  length  of  the  day; 
"You  are  chill,  Father  William,  your  hands 

are  as  ice, 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray. " 

"In  the  flat  where  I  live,"  Father  William 
replied, 

"Though  it  is  an  expensive  demesne. 
The  heat  is  turned  off  from  eleven  at  night 

Till  morning  at  seven-fifteen. " 

"You  are  cold,  Father  William,''  the  young 
man  cried 

"Though  you  live  in  a  beautiful  flat, 
You  constantly  swear  at  the  boreal  air  — 

Pray  slip  me  the  reason  for  that." 

"In  my  costly  abode, "  Father  William  replied, 
"The  casements  are  fashioned  so  ill 

That  the  wind  enters  in  till  the  temp-er-a-ture 
Of  my  bedroom  is  way  below  nil. " 

92 


The  Old  Man's  Discomforts 

"You  are  cold,  Father  William,"  the  young 

man  cried, 

"As  I  animadverted  before. 
And  yet  you  pay  many  doubloons  for  your 

rent  — 
Pray,  Pa,  juxtapose  me  once  more." 

"The  rent  that  I  pay,"  Father  William  re 
plied, 

"Is  paid  not  for  windows  nor  steam; 
But  the  entrance  downstairs  is  of  marble  and 

gold." 
And  that's  no  impalpable  dream. 


93 


The  Fool 

The  Fool  did  on  his  motley 
And  sighed,  as  who  should  say: 

"If  all  but  me  be  sobbing, 
Why  then  must  I  be  gay? 

"If  all  the  world  be  weeping, 
And  very  life  seem  wrong, 

Why  is  it  mine  to  fashion 
A  whimsy  and  a  song? 

"  Pray,  why  must  I  be  merry?  " 
—  But  came  no  answering  word. 

For  that  the  world  was  weeping, 
And  none  the  Fool  had  heard. 
APRIL  19,  1912. 


To  the  Wind:    After  Gilbert's  "To  the 

Terrestrial  Globe  " 
Also  after  two  slumberless  nights. 

Blow  on,  thou  wind,  blow  on! 
Across,  up,  down  the  Drive, 

Blow  on! 

What  though  I  toss  till  half-past  five? 
What  though  I  have  a  charge  to  keep? 
What  though  I  ululate  and  weep? 
What  though  I  cannot  get  to  sleep? 
Never  you  mind ! 

Blow  on! 

Blow  on,  thou  wind,  blow  on! 
Across  my  little  bed 

Blow  on! 

It's  true  there's  aching  in  my  head ; 
It's  true  my  room  is  twenty- two; 
My  feet  are  numb ;  my  lips  are  blue  — 
But  please  don't  let  that  worry  you! 
Never  you  mind ! 

Blow  on  — 

[It  blows  on.] 


95 


To  a  Lady  Complaining  of  Solitude 

[Lines  aroused  on  hearing  a  song  across  the  area  —  or 
is  it  aria?  —  way.] 

Lady,  I  hear  your  moan, 

Set  in  a  minor  key, 
>    Pitched  in  a  plaintive  tone, 
Triste  is  your  "All  alone, 
Nobody  here  but  me. " 

Lady,  I  know  you  not. 

Be  you  or  dark  or  fair, 
Happy  or  hard  your  lot, 
Who  you  may  be  or  what, 

Little  I  know  —  or  care. 

But  —  when  you  sing  that  song 
Reeking  with  woe  and  ruth  — 

Lady,  to  put  it  strong, 

Yours  is  a  statement  wrong, 
Far  from  the  well-known  truth. 

Lady,  in  brief,  you  lie. 

Think  of  me  as  I  rage, 
Aiming  to  versify. 
"All  alone!"    Am  not  I, 

Too,  in  the  vicinage? 
96 


The  Pandean  is  no  Pipe 

" Rat-a-tat!"  go  the  rattle-y  rivets 
Only  a  block  from  this  Broadway  abode. 

Though  I  were  right  as  a  legion  of  trivets, 
How  could  I  pencil  a  perishless  ode? 

" Ting-a-ling-ling ! "  goes  the  ring  telephonic: 
Haste  I  to  answer  it,  out  in  the  hall, 

"  Well?  "  I  intone.     Says  the  lady,  laconic, 
"Hang  your  receiver  up.    I  didn't  call." 

Enters  a  boy  who  demandeth  exchanges; 

Cometh  a  critic  to  borrow  a  match. 
Had  I  the  poise  of  the  Appenine  ranges, 

Still  inspiration  would  fail  to  attach. 

Day  after  day  do  I  tease  the  afflatus, 
Wooing  a  muse  that  is  too  far  aloft, 

And  when  I  leave,  a  forlorn  literatus, 
Office-mates  say,  "Gee,  that  guy's  got  it 
soft." 


97 


"The  Poems  of  Eugene  Field " 

(Somewhat  in  the  Fieldian  manner.) 

No  gold-reguerdoned  poet  I  to  puff  a  book  for 

pelf, 
For  even  I  am  forced  to  buy  the  books  I  praise 

myself, 
Albeit  there  be  those  that  think  that  when  I 

laud  a  tome 
Its  publisher  invites  me  in  to  make  myself  at 

home. 
Could  you  but  see  the  monthly  bills  that  stare 

me  in  the  face, 
You  readily  would  see  that  such  is  not  the 

happy  case; 
Yet  once  again  I  toot  the  horn,  again  the  pen 

I  wield 
To  advertise  the  Poetry  of  Eugene  Field. 

Not  Swinburne  with  his    lovely  lines    that 

lilt  their  way  along, 
Not  Byron's  burning  poetry,  nor  Wordsworth's 

simple  song, 
Not  Kipling's  virile  balladry,  nor  Marlowe's 

mighty  line, 
Not  Tennyson's  pellucid  rhyme,  nor  Shelley's 

odes  divine, 


"The  Poems  of  Eugene  Field" 

Not  Dobson's  dainty  triolets,  nor  Chaucer's 

sturdy  verse; 
Not  Southey,  Calverley  nor  Hood,  nor  eke 

Sir  Thomas  Perc., 
To  none  of  these  I  bring  the  bay,  to  none  the 

laurel  yield  — 
My  choice  is  for  the  Poetry  of  Eugene  Field. 

How  varied  are  the  poem-themes  in  which 

that  book  abounds ! 
The  Apple  Pies,  the  Gosling  Stews,  the  Joys 

Unknown  to  Lowndes! 
And  oh,  how  that  dyspeptic  apotheosized  the 

cooks 
And  longed  for  roast-beef  very  rare,  but  even 

rarer  books ! 
And  wit  ye  well,  how  hee  ben  fain  to  rede  of 

ony  knight 
Wyth  mace  and  hauberk,  helm  and  glaive, 

and  mickle  valoure  dight ; 
While  in  the  odes  of  Q.  H.  F.  his  knowledge  he 

revealed  — 
Good  sooth,  he  was  a  busy  bard,    was    Old 

'Gene  Field. 

Exalted  be  the  memory  of  him  with  whom 

we've  smiled, 
But  blessed  thrice  the  name  of  him  that  sang  a 

little  child/ 
Let  those  who  will  declare  the  Gentle  Poet 

insincere  — 

99 


In  Othet  Words 

I  doubt  it,  like  the  Carpenter,  and  check  a 

rising  tear. 
The  which  is  why  I  celebrate  that  poet  and 

his  rhyme 
And  hint  it  were  a  goodly  gift  to  give    at 

Christmas  time  — 
Two  dollars  net,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  — 

Why  should  it  be  concealed? 
Go,  buy  that  brimming  volume  by  Eugene 

Field! 


100 


Success 

Success,  oh  word  so  ill-defined, 

Oh  word  that  means  the  same  to  few! 
A  myriad  meanings  all  combined 
Are  rolled  in  you. 

Is  it  success  to  have  great  wealth 

And  all  the  pleasures  it  will  bring? 
Or  is  it  poverty  and  health, 
As  many  sing? 

Is  it  success  to  own  estates, 

Vast  areas  of  mines  and  land, 
To  have  the  pow'r  to  mock  the  fates; 
Supremely  grand; 

To  have  a  house  with  all  the  things 

That  luxury  and  taste  desire; 
Treasures  to  which  the  richest  kings 
May  well  aspire. 


A  beautiful  and  noble  wife, 

To  have,  to  hold  and  to  caress  — 
Is  this  —  are  these  the  things  of  life 
That  make  Success? 
101 


In  Other  Words 

Has  he  the  great,  the  true  success 

If  Love  and  Fame  and  Wealth  are  his 
Is  this  the  way  to  Happiness? 
You  bet  it  is. 


102 


Managerial  Tradition 

If  one  should  say  that  Boston  girls  were  pretty 

and  athletic  — 

As  many  of  them  very  likely  be  — 
If  one  should  say  Chicago  maids  were  cultured 

and  esthetic 
And  Philadelphia  fairies  fast  and  free  — 

If  one  depict  a  Western  girl  that  isn't  known 

as  "breezy," 

If  one  should  say  a  Gotham  girl  were  slow  — 
It  all  would  be  veracious  and  it  should  be 

very  easy; 
But  who  would  ever  dare  produce  the  show? 


103 


44 Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year" 

(As  Wordsworth  might  simply  have  done  it.) 

I  met  a  little  village  child, 

A  simple  one  and  poor 
As  ever  crossed  the  heath  at  night 

Or  went  across  the  moor. 

"What  do  you  out  so  late  abroad?" 

I  asked  that  simple  child. 
She  simply  looked  at  me  and  said, 

The  while  she  simply  smiled: 

"The  seven  of  us  simply  live 

A  little  way  from  here; 
And  oh,  to-day  is  Christmas  day  — 

It  comes  but  once  a  year. " 

In  many  a  land  and  many  a  clime 

Have  I  had  cause  to  be, 
But  never  since  then  have  I  seen 

Such  sweet  simplicity. 
104 


''Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year" 

(As  Austin  Dobson  might  rondeau  it,  "To  a  Poet 
Bewailing  the  Paucity  of  Christmas.") 

"  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year?  " 

Beit  so!    Why  interfere? 
Melt  but  once  the  silver  snows, 
Blossoms  only  once  the  rose  — 

Does  it  make  the  rose  less  dear? 

Nay,  my  silly  sonneteer, 
Other  days  may  disappear, 
New  Year's  leaves  and  May-day  goes  — 
Christmas  comes! 

Draws  the  day  of  Noel  near, 
Light  the  log  and  mix  the  cheer! 

Vanish,  Care!  and  perish  Prose! 

'Tis  the  season  of  rondeaux 
Intricately  Gallic.    .    .    .    Here 
Christmas  comes! 

(Being  an  attempt  to  parody  an  eminent  young 
librettist,  author,  manager  and  actor.) 

Now,  everybody  knows  that  I'm  a  patriotic 
guy  — 

(By  the  dawn's  early  light) 
My  birthday  and  the  country's  is  the  4th  day 
of  July. 

(Tramp!  Tramp!   Tramp!   The  boys 
are  marching.} 

105 


In  Other  Words 

But  though  I'd  like  to  sing  a  song  about  Abe 

Lincoln's  birthday, 

(Just  before  the  battle,  mother) 
I  think  that,  on  the  level,  Christmas  ought  to 

have  the  first  say. 

CHORUS 

It's  a  grand  old  institution, 

(In  Dixie  land  Pll  take  my  stand) 
In  the  Western  Hemisphere, 

(Hail  Columbia!    Happy  land!) 
Then  give  three  cheers  for  Christmas, 

(And  a  tiger) 
It  comes  but  once  a  year. 

You  may  have  your  Decoration  Day,  your 
New  Year's  and  the  rest, 

(O  Columbia!  the  gem  of  the  ocean!) 
But  Christmas  Eve  on  Broadway  is  the  time 
that  suits  me  best. 

(Maryland!    My  Maryland!) 
'Tis  there  you  find  your  dear  old  pals,  the  best 
in  all  the  world; 

(Way  down  upon  the  Swanee  River/) 
'Tis  there  you  find  the  best  of  all  the  fellows 
and  the  girls. 

CHORUS 
It's  a  grand  old  institution,  etc. 

106 


44 Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year" 

(Somewhat  in  the  Kipling  manner.) 

Now  these  are  the  things  that  Christmas  brings, 

the  things  of  the  tide  of  Yule, 
And  this  is  the  way  of  that  dreadsome  day,  as  it 

goes  by  the  su'eneless  rule: 

Days  and  weeks  the  lady  seeks  to  purchase  of  a 

trinket, 
(Shop!  shop!  shop!     O  the  terror  of    the 

trade!) 
Buyin'  of  a  gift  o'  love?    Well,  ye  better  think 

it  — 

Aimin'  at  the  sergeant  who  is  passin'  on 
parade. 

And  it's  shop,  shop,  shop ! 
Till  the  sweat  begins  to  drop ! 
Never  was  a  present  yet  worth  a  charge  o' 
hop. 

Sergeant  Burr  has  bought  for  her  a  bally 

di'mond  jewel 
(Shop!  shop!  shop!    O  the  terror  of  the 

trade!) 

Xever  met  a  orfcer  yet  as  wasn't  cold  an'  cruel 
(O  the  wily  sergeant,  and  ah,  the  willing 
maid !) 

And  it's  shop !  shop !  shop ! 
Till  the  sweat  begins  to  drop  — 
Never  was  a  present  yet  worth  a  charge  o' 
hop!  * 

107 


In  Other  Words 

Now  those  are  the  things  that  Christmas  brings, 

the  things  of  the  tide  of  Yule, 
And  that  is  the  way  of  that  dreadsome  day,  as  it 

goes  by  the  swerveless  rule! 

(In  Hood's  worst  manner.) 

JOCOSE  JOE  STENCIL 

A  Bathetic  Ballad 

Joe  Stencil  was  a  nice  young  man, 

And  eke  a  shipping  clerk, 
Although  he'd  often  work  to  love, 

He  never  loved  to  work. 


One  day  he  met  with  Minnie  Brown, 
And  fain  would  be  her  lover, 

But  Minnie  overlooked  him  quite, 
Although  he  looked  her  over. 

"O  Minnie  Brown!    0  Minnie  Brown! 

Why  think  you  not  of  me?" 
"The  more  I  think  of  you,"  she  said, 

"The  less  I  think,"  said  she. 

"O  Minnie  Brown!  O  Minnie  Brown! 

I  think  it  would  be  proper, 
Although  I  but  a  shipper  am, 

If  I  should  be  a  shopper. 

108 


*  Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year 

"Be  not  so  adamant,"  said  Joe, 

"I  aim  not  to  deceive. 
I'll  be  your  Christmas  Adam,  if 

You'll  be  my  Christmas  Eve. " 

Joe  Stencil  then  began  to  sing 
Of  all  the  joy  he'd  bring  her: 

"Ah,  Minnie,  when  I  sing  to  you, 
I  am  a  minnesinger. " 

"O  Joseph,  cut  the  comedy, 

You've  had  an  overdose; 
Although  I  like  to  hear  you,  Joe 
I  like  you  less  jocose." 

"O  Min,  I  know  the  jokes  are  not 

Particularly  good, 
But  they  are  as  jest  as  good  as  some 

You'll  find  in  Thomas  Hood. 


"Only  upon  the  Christmas  day 
Shall  I  my  puns  rehearse, 

For  though  they  are  quite  prosy,  yet 
You  know  they  might  be  verse. " 

And  so  'tis  but  a  single  day 
This  double  pair  most  fear, 

And  they  rejoice  that  Christmas  day 
Comes  only  once  a  year. 
109 


In  Other  Words 

(As  Lord  Byron  might  sing  it,  in  a  minor.) 

Farewell !  And  if  within  that  breast 
Affection's  spark  shall  smolder  still, 

Fan  it  to  flame  and  quench  the  rest, 
And  let  the  world  say  what  it  will. 

Farewell!    Farewell!    O  wintry  word 
That  chills  and  numbs  this  aching  heart  — 

This  heart  that  hath  so  often  erred, 
But  softens  when  'tis  time  to  part. 

Farewell!    Farewell!    Farewell!    And    though 
This  heart  shall  be  an  empty  thing, 

Thou  canst  not  fathom  half  the  woe 
That  lies  within  it  when  I  sing. 

Farewell!  Farewell!  Farewell!  Oh,  dear, 

Of  all  that  dearest  is  to  me, 
Though  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year, 

My  farewells  come  more  frequently. 

(Being  an  attempt  to  get  away  with  Thomas  Moore's 
manner.) 

Oh,  sweet  is  the  scent  of  the  rose  in  the  morn 
ing, 

And  fresh  is  the  flower  besprinkled  with  dew, 
But  sweeter  and  fresher  thy  face  is,  mavour- 

neen, 

As  pure  as  the  lily  and  whiter  of  hue. 
no 


"Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year" 

Oh,  silk  was  the  shawl  that  I  last  saw    her 

wearing, 
And  sad  are  the  moorlands  and  sad  are  the 

leas. 
And  sadder  the  songs  that  they  sing  about 

Erin, 

And  saddest  the  way  that  they  drop  off  the 
g's. 

Oh,  red  is  the  berry  that  grows  on  the  holly, 
And  tender  the  mem'ry  of  vanished  things 

dear, 

And  this  is  the  thought  of  my  sweet  melan 
choly. 

That  Christmas  comes  once  and  but  once  in 
the  year. 

(In  one  of  Frank  L.  Stan  ton's  manners.) 

I 

Chris'mus  am  a-comin', 
Cahve  de  possum  meat! 

My!  dem  sweet  potatoes 
Am  mighty  good  to  eat 

II 

Chris'mus  am  a-comin', 

Down  in  Geo'gy  Ian'; 
Chris'mus  am  a-comin', 

Don'  yo  un'er'stan'? 
Ill 


In  Other  Words 

III 

Chris'mus  am  a-comin', 

Hear,  believers,  hear, 
Chris'mus  come  to  Geo'gy 

Only  wunst  a  year. 

(Stanzas  IV  to  CLI  supplied  on  demand.) 
(As  Martin  Farquhaf  Tupper  might  have  obscured  it.) 

Now  this  is  an  indisputable  fact, 

And  that  is  one  which  no  one  can  dispute; 
As  true  as  that  a  diplomat  needs  tact, 

As  true  as  that  an  apple  is  a  fruit, 
None  can  deny  what  I  have  said;  What  I 
Have  said,  I  say,  nobody  can  deny. 

And  if  none  can  gainsay  what  I  have  said, 
Then  that  which  I  have  said  none  can  gain 
say, 

A  man  who's  passed  away  is  known  as  dead; 
Dead  is  a  person  who  has  passed  away. 

But  this  is  not  what  I  began  to  sing; 

What  I  began  to  say  is  not  this  thing. 

Now  this  is  what  I  hold  as*solemn  truth, 
And  solemn  truth  is  that  which  is  not  gay. 

A  man  of  sixty  years  is  not  a  youth, 
Nor  are  black  tresses  those  completely  gray. 

But  this  is  clear  as  glass,  as  glass  is  clear: 

The  day  of  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

112 


44 Christmas  Comes  but  Once  a  Year" 

(As  Swinburne  might  treat  it.) 

As  a  day  that  dawns  when  the  dark  is  dimmer, 

Sodden  and  sad  as  a  sunless  sea, 
Gray  and  green  as  a  glaring  glimmer, 

Burnished  and  bright  in  its  gilded  glee. 
Gone  the  guerdon  and  gone  the  glories, 

Dead  or  ever  the  day  was  born  — 
Dead  as  a  devilish  dove,  Dolores, 

Mother  of  misery,  made  to  mourn ! 

Thou  hast  bared  thy  breast  to  the  boreal 
breezes 

Sibilant,  stark,  as  the  soul  of  sin, 
Chill  and  cheap  as  a  Cheshire  cheese  is, 

Gloriously  glad  as  an  elinorglyn! 
Winds  that  whimper  and  winds  that  whistle 

Faster  far  than  the  phantom  of  fear. 
0  Dolores,  the  toe  of  mistle! 

Christmas  comes!  and  but  once  a  year. 


113 


After  Samuel  Rogers 

Go!  you  may  call  it  madness,  folly; 

You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away. 
There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy 

I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 

For  me  the  month  is  never  May. 

Fate  hurls  at  me  a  daily  volley. 
The  nights  are  black,  the  noons  are  gray  — 

Go!  you  may  call  it  madness,  folly. 

Go,  frivolers,  to  your  fi-nale! 

Go,  butterflies,  go  on  arid  play! 
You  make  no  hit  with  me.     By  golly, 

You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away! 

Alas!  the  heavy  price  we  pay 
For  Life  her  mistletoe  and  holly! 

The  shadow's  longer  than  the  ray. 
There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy! 

Each  time  I  meet  another  dollie 
She  takes  a  look  and  says:  "Nay,  nay!" 

And  while  I'm  beating  for  the  trolley 
/  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 
114 


After  Samuel  Rogers 

How  simple  is  the  metric  jolly ! 

Though  meaningless  as  shredded  hay, 
Though  very  rare  the  rhymes  in  oily, 

How  smooth  these  rondeaux  redoublees 

Go! 


115 


The  Diplomaniacs 

"The  Puritans  and  Liberty"; 

"The  Power  of  the  Press"; 
"The  Portuguese  in  History"; 

And  "What  Is  True  Success?" 

"The  Elements  of  National  Wealth"; 

"The  Fixedness  of  Mars"; 
"Is  Money  Greater  than  Good  Health?" 

And  "Night  Brings  Out  the  Stars." 

"The  Greatness  of  Obedience"; 

"The  Mission  of  Research"; 
"Will  Hegel's  Fame  Have  Permanence?" 

"Which  Greater  —  State  or  Church? " 

"  Audaces  Fortuna  Juvat"; 

"America  and  Spain"; 
"Hoc  Opus  Finis  Coronat," 

"Psychology  of  Pain." 

"The  Joy  that  Education  brings"; 

"Antonian  Triremes"  — 
Are  but  a  few  of  many  things 

For  graduation  themes. 
116 


Rondel 

Briber}7,  suicide,  crime  — 

Ain't  it  a  deuce  of  a  note 
Trying  to  fashion  a  rhyme  — 

One  that  exchanges  will  quote? 

Why  do  the  papers  devote 
Pages  and  pages  to  grime, 
Bribery,  suicide,  crime? 

Ain't  it  a  deuce  of  a  note? 

Once  when  the  psalter  I  smote 
Sounds  that  were  sweet  and  sublime 

Came;  but  to-day  if  a  pote 
Echoes  the  theme  of  his  time  — 
Bribery,  Suicide,  Crime  — 

Ain't  it  a  deuce  of  a  note? 


117 


To  the  Waltonian  Bards 

(Aroused  by  the  fact  that  fourteen  of  our  exchanges 
this  morning  contain  "Fishin'"  poems.) 

Poets  that  prate  of  the  worry  of  working 
During  the  days  of  a  sultry  July, 

Prate  of  the  pleasure  undoubtedly  lurking, 
Lurking,  we  say,  in  the  rod  and  the  fly  — 

Bards  who  descant  on  the  wonders  of  fishing, 
Angling  for  pickerel,  "muskie"  and  trout, 

Voicing  that  awful,  inevitable  "wishing"  — 
Can  it,  forget  it,  let  go,  cut  it  out. 

Joys  piscatorial  may  be  delightful, 

Singing  them,  though,  is  a  bit  of  a  pest; 

Ours  not  the  wish  to  be  acid  or  spiteful, 
But,  brother  bards,  won't  you  give  us  a  rest? 


118 


Triolettuce  Salad 

Ingredients  by  Goldsmith,  Mallet,  Trowbridge  and 
Coleridge.      Stirred  by  us  with  a  fountain  pen  this  day. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song. 
Or  slim  or  stout,  or  tall  or  short, 
Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 
Attend  ye  to  my  metric  sport 

Until  I  sound  the  gong. 
Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song. 


'Twas  at  the  silent,  solemn  hour 

When  night  and  morning  meet. 
Within  my  cozy  five-room  bow'r, 
T'was  at  the  silent  solemn  hour, 
When  Bill,  in  tones  of  dreadful  pow'r, 

Yelled:  "HEY,  GIDDAP THERE,  PETE!" 
'Twas  at  the  silent,  solemn  hour 

When  night  and  morning  meet! 


119 


In  Other  Words 

The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade, 
For  silence  and  for  sleep. 

0  mighty  line  by  Trowbridge  made  — 
"  The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade" 

1  hear  the  garbage-can  brigade, 
And  murmur,  cursing  deep: 

"  The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade, 
For  silence  and  for  sleep." 

Oh,  sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole! 
Ah,  Coleridge,  thou  who  daredst  to  sing 
" 'Oh,  sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing!" 
Thou  never  heardst  the  ash  can's  bing, 

Else  blank  had  been  that  scroll: 
Oh,  sleep!  it  is  a  gentle  thing 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole! 


120 


The  Easy  Giggle 

Showing  how  the  leading  comedian  may  always  get 
a  certain  hand. 

\Vhen  the  vein  of  comicality 
Is  voided  of  vitality, 

And  all  the  silly  little 

Tattle-tittle 

Has  been  done, 
There  always  is  a  visible 
Assurance  of  the  risible 

By  dexterously  using 

An  amusing 

Little  pun. 


CHORUS 

You  can  always  get  a  laugh  with  that. 

Or  by  joshing  any  lady  who  is  fat, 
When  you  sing  the  second  stanza, 
Speak  of  Dressier  or  Friganza  — 

You  can  always  get  a  line  with  that, 


In  Other  Words 

The  ways  of  being  humorous 
Are  not  so  very  numerous; 

They'll  laugh  until  they're  crying 

When  you're  guying 
New  Rochelle; 
And  nearly  all  humanity 
Will  giggle  at  profanity  — 

Tho  whole  entire  gamut 

Clear  from  " " 

Down  to  " .  " 

CHORUS 

You  can  always  get  a  laugh  with  that  — 
Never  try  to  hit  the  crowd  above  the  hat, 

If  you  want  to  get  'em  shrieking, 

Imitate  a  lady  speaking  — 
You  can  always  get  a  laugh  with  that. 

DANCE 


122 


The  Ballade  of  the  Northern  Girl 

Her  manner  was  perfectly  sweet 

And  golden  the  hue  of  her  hair; 
She  was  pretty,  of  course,  and  petite; 

And  when  you  would  ask  of  her:  "  Where 

Are  you  from?"  she  would  answer:  "Eau 

Claire, 
Wisconsin,    What?    'Baltimore?    Nixie! 

What    made    you    think    I     was      from 
there?"     .... 

She  always  applauded  at  "Dixie." 


She  was  fair  from  her  head  to  her  feet; 

She  was  —  oh,  description's  despair, 
As  she  rose  from  her  orchestra  seat 

And  pounded  her  gloves  to  a  tear  - 

This  dear  little  maid  from  Bellaire, 
Ohio.     Ingenuous,  tricksy. 

"New  Orleans?    No!     .      .     .     How  you 

stare!"     .     /    .     . 
She  always  applauded  at  "Dixie." 
123 


In  Other  Words 

She  is  found  in  the  shop  and  the  street; 

She  sits  in  a  restaurant  chair; 
She  may  be  bourgeois  or  elite; 

But  she  thrills  to  the  Southerner's  air. 

From  Portsmouth,  N.  H,,  and  Big  Bear, 
N.  Y.,  this  ubiquitous  pixie. 

Though  blue  was  her  grandfather's  wear, 
She  always  applauded  at  "Dixie." 

L'ENvoi 
O  Epitaph-makers,  prepare 

This  sentence,  and  chisel  it  quick,  see: 

HERE     LIETH     MISS    LEGION,     THE     FAIR! 


124 


Lines  on  the  Sabbath 

To  a  person  loving  leisure  in  a  high  and  heap 
ing  measure 

What  a  joyaunce,  what  a  treasure  is  a  Sun 
day  afternoon! 
Of  diversions  there  are  plenty,  from  the  dolce 

far  niente 

Joys  to  seventeen  or  twenty  things  to  kill  a 
day  in  June. 

One  may  journey  in  a  motor,  go  to  Coney  in  a 

boat,  or 
Pass  the  rickey  down  the  throat,  or  mix  the 

julep  with  the  mint; 
Do  you  love  it  cool  and  pretty,  there  are  Deal, 

Atlantic  City, 

And  some  others  that  my  ditty  hasn't  room 
enough  to  print. 

For  the  Phyllises  there's  wooing  while  the 

Cory  dons  are  suing; 
There  is  walking  and  canoeing,  there  are 

hammocks,  there  are  swings; 
And  for  those  that  have  the  notion  there's  the 

broad  Atlantic  Ocean 

For  a  dip  —  and  Land  o'  Goshen!  —  there's 
a  myriad  of  things! 
125 


In  Other  Words 

One  may  read  a  little  when  it  strikes  one's 

fancy  —  Arnold  Bennett, 
H.  G.  Wells,  or  what  the  Senate  has  to  say 

on  this  or  that  — 
But  of  all  the  things  delighting  and  alluring 

and  exciting, 

Truly,  none  of  them  is  writing  in  a  stuffy 
Harlem  flat. 


"The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers" 

(The  Pilgrim  Fathers  have  virtues  ascribed  to  them 
which  they  never  possessed — Prof.  ALBERT  BUSHNELL 
HART.) 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  warm  and  pleasant  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  an  azure  sky 

Their  Parrish  branches  toss'd; 

And  the  summer  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  those  summer  tourists    moor'd  their 
bark 

On  the  swell  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  weak-hearted,  came. 
But,  hie  a  bunch  of  exiled  bums, 

Trying  to  beat  the  game. 

There  were  men  with  thinning  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  class ; 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there 

In  a  burg  like  Plymouth,  Mass.? 

127 


In  Other  Words 

What  did  they  there  for  weeks? 

I  do  not  know,  I'm  sure, 
Unless,  perhaps,  they  made     lt Antiques" 

And  "real  old  furniture." 


128 


The  Exile  of  Erin 
(Mr.  Thomas  Campbell's  heirs  are  apologized  to.) 

There  came  to  the  flat  a  poor  exile  of  Erin, 
Her  brogue  was  as  thick  as  a  shamrock 

puree, 
The  calico  dress  that  our  Maggie  was  wearin' 

Was  ragged  as  army  flags  all  shot  away; 
She  was  timid  and  meek,  she  would  stand 

without  hitchin' ; 

She  labored  all  day  in  the  hot  little  kitchen; 
She  washed  and  she  ironed  and  hummed  most 

bewitching 
The  beautiful  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

All  friendless  and  lonely  was  Maggie  O'Ryan, 
No  sweethearts  there  came  her  lone  heart  to 

beguile; 
Yet  cheerful  and  gladsome,  nor  sobbin'  nor 

sighin', 
For  friends  that  were  left  in  the  Emerald 

Isle; 

No  threnody  hers  for  the  land  she  was  born  in ; 
She  always  arose  before  sLx  in  the  mornin', 
And   sang   the  sweet   strains   of   her   "Erin 

Mavourneen"  — 
The  minor  melodies  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

129 


In  Other  Words 

Alas,  as  the  poet  declares,  Tempus  fidgets! 
'Tis  only  a  month  since  she  came  to  our 

shore. 
But  since  she's  met  Norahs  and  Katies    and 

Bridgets, 

Ochone!  our  acushla  is  happy  no  more! 
She  started  to  work  for  a  weekly  three-fifty; 
But  now  she  gets  seven,  her  habits  are  thrifty. 
Her  dress  it  is  faultless  and  stylishly  nifty  — 
And  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays  and  Satur 
days  out. 


180 


Of  Course  You  Would 

If  you  had  to  make  some  verses  on  the  topics 

of  the  day, 
You  would  read  the  morning  papers  rather 

fully; 
For  you'd  like  to  find  a  theme  to  make  your 

readers  shout:  "Hooray!" 
And  to  make  your  Dear  Employer  say: 
"That's  bully!" 

You  would  scan  aforesaid  journals  with  a  very 

fine-tooth  comb 
(With  the  metaphors  I'm  something  of  a 

mixer.) 
For  a  nifty  little  subject  you  could  pad  into  a 

pome; 

And  you'd  have  to  be  about  it  pretty  quick, 
sir. 

You  would  read  the  Morse  indictment;  you 

would  read  of  plot  and  crime; 
You  might  read  about  a  meeting  suffragetty ; 
But  you'd  say:  "Them  ain't  no  matters  for  to 

put  in  classic  rhyme," 

And  no  more  would  be  the  Central  loans  and 
Hetty. 

131 


In  Other  Words 

You   would   read   how   Mr.   Vanderbilt  and 

others  had  been  robbed; 
You  would  read  or  skip  some  speeches  at  a 

dinner; 
You  would  see   a   Gothic  headline   saying: 

"  Pretty  Woman  Mobbed, " 
And  you'd  read  a  few  critiques  of    Otis 
Skinner. 

/ 

You  would  read  about  the  blow-up  in  the  tun 
nel  yesternoon; 
You  would  read  —  oh,  yes  you  would  —  the 

ice  inquiry; 
You  would  read  about  the  chap  who  lived  a 

week  in  a  balloon, 

And   you'd   find    that   every    theme   was 
uninspiry. 

Oh,  you'd  worry  like  the  mischief  on  your 

foolish  daily  pome, 

For  you'd  want  to  do  it  prettily  and  nicely, 
And  after  doing  all  of  this  you'd  hit  the  breeze 

for  home. 

*  *  *  * 

And  that's  the  way  that  I  should  do,  pre 
cisely. 


132 


True  Comfort 

(There  is  nothing  quite  so  comforting  in  this  life  as  a 
word  of  five  syllables.  —  MR.  W.  PETT  RIDGE.) 

Brevity!    Heavens,  what  inefficaciousness! 

Brevity!    Piffle!    A  mere  fabulosity! 
Comfort  is  only  a  great  ostentatiousness; 

Quiet  is  only  in  vociferosity. 

Shortness  in  writing  denotes  adolescency, 
Me  for  an  erudite,  big  etymologist  — 

One  who  can  tell  you  the  true  delitescency 
Found  in  the  brain  of  a  phytopathologist. 

Still,  I  believe  that  a  man  pharmaceutical 
Seems,  in  a  measure,  to  be  reimbursable, 

Arguing  thus,  it  seems  quite  therapeutical 
Voters  for  Taft  are  to  be  incoercible. 

Which,  to  a  mind  beyond  doubt  algebraical, 
Seems  but  the  rankest  of  rank  meretricious- 
ness, 

Silly  and  sad,  not  to  say  pharisaical ; 
Bless  you !  the  thing  is  but  old  superstitious- 
ness! 

133 


In  Other  Words 

Ah !    How  I  flounder  in  mad  inconclusiveness ! 

Mad  is  this  quinquepedalian  verbosity. 
"Comfort?"     Great  heavings!      What    mad 

perdiffusiveness  — 
Look  at  me  here  in  complete  comatosity! 


To  Gclett  Burgess 

I  never  saw  a  Sulphite.    No, 
I  never  hope  to  see  one; 

I  am  acquiring  brain  fag,  though, 
Endeavoring  to  be  one. 


134 


Bacchanalian  Songs 

(The  American  Magazim  advances  that  most  of  the 
drinking  songs  are  pretty  poor  stuff.) 

These  endless  aimless,  footless  airs! 

Carousers  start  and  never  end  'em: 
"We're  Here  Because";  "Nobody  Cares"; 
"Nunc  Est  Bibendum." 

'Tis  true.     The  lyric  of  the  souse 
Is  often  far  from  a  divine  song, 
Be  it  "Another  on  the  House" 

Or  Hovey's" Stein  Song." 

A  myriad  more  the  drinking  cuss 

Will  carol  as  the  hours  grow  slender? 
"Lang  Soil  Er  Leben"  and  "Give  Us 
A  Drink,  Bartender!" 

Poor  stuff,  in  sooth.     Yet  though  the  loads 

May  warble  dithyrambics  wishy, 
Meseems  I  know  no  stirring  odes 
To  Milk-and- Vichy. 


135 


On  a  Certain  Propensity  of  Bootblacks  to 
Toy  with  the  Shoelaces  of  the  Shinee 

Polishing  little  rapscallion, 

Shining  away  at  my  shoes, 
Be  thou  or  Greek  or  Italian, 

Thou  art  the  one  I  accuse; 
Ruin  my  tans  with  thy  tarnish, 

That  were  a  crime  to  condone, 
But,  when  thou  smearest  the  varnish, 

Leave  thou  my  laces  alone! 

Utterly  spoil  and  demolish 

All  of  the  calfskin  I  wear, 
Wreak,  with  thy  poisonous  polish, 

Ruin  —  'tis  little  I  care. 
But,  as  thou  needest  thy  nickel, 

Listen  to  me  as  I  moan: 
"  Cease  thou  mine  ankles  to  tickle! 

Leave  thou  my  laces  alone!" 

Fiend,  how  thou  watchest  me  wriggle! 

Ghoul,  how  thou  watchest  me  wince! 
Whiles  that  thou  hidest  a  giggle 

Under  thy  Genoan  squints. 
Hark!    I  shall  —  be  this  a  warning 

Final  and  straight  from  my  throne! 
Kick  in  thy  features  some  morning, 

An  thou  leav'st  not  my  laces  alone! 
136 


Christmas  Cards 
Being  the  songs  of  an  old  Scrooge 

I.      TO  A  JANITOR 

Native  of  Sweden  or  Norway, 

Tyrant  of  terrible  type, 
Standing  around  in  the  doorway, 

Smoking  a  miserable  pipe  — 

Thou  who  refusest  to  steam  up, 
Thou  who  denyest  me  heat, 

Thou  who  wilt  not  send  my  cream  up, 
Thou  who  purloinest  my  meat  — 

Father  of  infants  whose  weeping 
All  through  the  perilous  night 

Loudly  inhibits  my  sleeping  — 
Read,  if  thou  canst,  what  I  write: 

Why,  at  this  holiday  season, 
Should  I  drop  into  the  slot 

Money?    There  isn't  a  reason; 
Therefore,  old  chap,  I  shall  not. 
137 


In  Other  Words 

II.      TO  A  STENOGRAPHER 

Person  feminine  of  gender, 

Pounding  at  the  lettered  keys, 
Think  you  that  I  should  surrender 
Tribute,  be  it  ne'er  so  slender? 
Lithe  and  listen,  please: 


You  who,  chafing  at  your  fetters, 

Say  you  "Do  not  have  to  work," 
Queen  of  pompadoured  coquetters 
How  you  hate  to  take  my  letters! 
How  you  love  to  shirk! 


You  who  take  two  hours  for  luncheon  — 

Cake  and  soda,  as  it  seems, 
Being  all  that  make  your  nuncheon, 
While  all  afternoon  you  munch  on 
Callow  chocolate  creams. 


Typist,  it  is  truth  I'm  telling  — 

Pardon  mine  insurgency  — 
But,  O  maid  at  work  rebelling, 
Scorner  of  the  rules  of  spelling, 
Not  a  cent  from  me! 
138 


Christmas  Cards 

III.      TO  AN  ELEVATOR  BOY 

You  leave  me  waiting  on  my  floor, 

Although  I  press  the  button  hard. 
Day  after  day  do  you  ignore 
This  bard. 


I  walk  downstairs;  a  tiresome  task 

For  one  aweary,  worn  and  old. 
And  now  at  Christmas-time  you  ask 
For  gold! 


Shall  I  a  good  cigar  deny 

Myself?    A  quarter?    Make  your  lot 
A  bit  more  bearable?    Well,  I 
Guess  not! 


IV.      TO  A  COOK 

Foreign  genius  culinary, 

Proud  but  inefficient  cook, 
Gretchen,  Olga,  Hulda,  Mary, 
Look: 


Haply  thou  expect'st  a  present 
As  the  smallest  of  thy  dues, 
Hearken!    Thou  shalt  hear  unpleasant 

News. 

139 


In  Other  Words 

Hast  thou  ever  tried  to  study 

What  my  palate  might  allure? 
Dost  thou  make  the  coffee  muddy? 
Sure. 

Though  I  like  a  peeled  tomato, 

Do  I  get  it  thataway? 
Do  I  get  a  baked  potato? 

Nay. 

Though  I  like  my  steak  the  rarest, 

Red  as  the  Milwaukee  bricks, 
Thy  results  but  prove  thou  carest 
Nix. 

Therefore  let  this  be  the  burden 
Of  this  bit  of  deathless  dope: 
Dost  thou  get  a  Christmas  guerdon? 
Nope! 


140 


Thanking  One  and  All. 

[If  it  were  generally  known  how  many  writers  who 
have  achieved  success  have  practically  been  made  by 
editors  endowed  with  the  gift  of  helping  the  young 
author  to  find  himself,  the  public  would  be  indeed  sur 
prised.  Once  in  a  while  one  may  be  startled  by  some 
grateful  communication  or  dedication  expressive  of 
such  literary  indebtedness,  but  this  is  rare.  It  must 
be  owned  that  the  attitude  of  the  successful  author  is 
usually  one  of  self-congratulation.  —  Boston  Herald. 

Of  me,  good  sooth,  none  ever  wrote 

"How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth 
It  is  to  have  a  thankless  pote!" 

For  wit  ye  well,  this  Tower  of  Truth 
Had  never  seen  the  1.  of  d. 

Unless  the  costly  linotyper 
Had  set  my  stuff,  that  it  might  be 

Emblazoned  in  this  evening  pyper. 

And  if  the  make-up  should  refuse 

To  place  my  gems  as  I  request, 
Where  then  would  be  the  motley  muse? 

Where  then  my  japery  and  jest? 
And  if  the  paper  mill  shut  down 

Or  leaden  type  no  more  were  minted, 
Where  then  would  be  my  fair  renown? 

Where  I,  with  priceless  pomes  unprinted? 
141 


In  Other  Words 

So  say  not  that  the  trait  is  rare; 

Us  authors  is  a  grateful  crew. 
Our  aim  is  ever  to  be  fair, 

And  give  the  angel  all  his  due: 
Brown's  grammar,  Noah  Webster's  tome 

And  Walker  on  Versification 
All  help  me  when  I  pull  a  pome  — 

My  stuff  is  all  collaboration. 

"  Ungrateful?  "    Nay !    My  lightest  line 

Is  due  to  others  more  than  me. 
No  paragraph  is  wholly  mine; 

No  verse  I  own  in  simple  fee. 
If  even  the  cashier  himself, 

Some  Saturday  when  I  endeavor 
To  grab  my  gold,  refused  me  pelf, 

I'd  give  up  Litrachoor  forever. 


142 


Lines  in  Appreciation  of  a  Lady's  Art 

Madura  maid  that  o'er  the  stove  holdeth 

despotic  sway, 
Small  is  the  labor  that  you  do,  though  great 

your  weekly  pay, 
Far  from  a  Savarin  are  you  in  the  role  that  you 

have  picked, 
Tortoni  could  have  beaten  you  from  clams  to 

Benedict. 
Nay,  I'll  make  one  exception,  and  one  that 

bids  me  sing 
Your  o.  f.  strob'ry  shortcake,  a  Rare  and 

Perfect  Thing. 

In  many  a  line  of  cooking  your  ineptitude  is 

great, 
You  have  three  afternoons  a  week,  you  come 

each  morning  late. 
You  burn  an  awful  lot  of  gas,  you  waste  a  lot 

of  stuff, 
Your  soups  are  generally  weak,  your  steaks 

are  always  tough, 
Yet  here  is  to  Virginia,  the  state  that  gave  you 

birth, 
And  your  o.  f.  strob'ry  short  cake,  the  Finest 

Thing  on  Earth! 
143 


In  Other  Words 

Madura  maiden,  rob  a  bank,  yet  should  you 

be  enthroned, 
Commit  a  century  of  crime,  yet  shall  you  be 

condoned 
So  long  as  you  may  build  those  joys,  those 

Benisons  of  Bliss, 
Whose  memory  is  with  me  now  as  I  unlimber 

this; 
Whose  recollection  this  here  apostrophic  stuff 

has  stirred 
On  your  o.  f.  strob'ry  shortcake,  which  is 

Cooking's  Final  Word. 


For  Commuters  Only 

PLAIN  APPEARS  THE  PRINTED  WORD 
IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  DAY; 

NOT  A  LETTER  OF  IT  BLURRED- 
IT  APPEARS  THIS  WAY. 

Coin  gthr  oughtatun  nelth  ough; 

Lett  ersf  lyandflit; 
Sylla  blesa  re  wab  bly  —  so  — 

Evernoticeit? 


144 


Inept  Quotation's  Artificial  Aid 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three: 

I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
That  not  impossible  She. 

"I  was  with  Grant  —  "  the  stranger  said 
By  the  nine  gods  he  swore  — 

For  here,  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread 
Beside  a  human  door. 

Stay,  lady,  stay  for  mercy's  sake! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye! 
And  could  I  ever  keep  awrake 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry? 

Love  still  hath  something  of  the  sea, 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night; 

Whate'er  the  years  may  bring  to  me, 
Fond  mem'ry  brings  the  light. 

I  hear  a  voice  you  cannot  hear, 

Beside  the  Springs  of  Dove; 
And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 

She  never  told  her  love. 
145 


In  Other  Words 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
Look  backward  with  a  smile. 

The  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man, 
And  only  man  is  vile. 

I  have  set  my  life  upon  a  cast  — 
To  die  were  far  more  sweet  — 

As  through  on  Alpine  village  passed 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 

To  drive  dull  care  away. 
In  Venice  on  the  Bridge  on  Sighs, 

Upon  a  truss  of  hay. 

I  never  saw  a  purple  cow 

Or  riursed  a  dear  gazelle; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow 

I  only  feel  Farewell! 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May, 
When  night  and  morning  meet, 

Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet. 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight 

In  faery  lands  forlorn, 
She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 

Breast  high  amid  the  corn. 
146 


Inept  Quotation's  Artificial  Aid 

For  what  avail  the  plough  or  sail? 

Men  were  deceivers  ever. 
Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  let  who  will  be  clever. 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart, 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye; 
'Tis  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart  — 

Good-bye,  my  lover,  good-bye! 


147 


Some  Speeches 

Now  glory  to  our  holy  cause,  from  whence  all 

glories  spring, 
And  glory  to  our  candidate,  who  stands  for 

everything. 
So,  gentlemen,  I  nominate  that  leader  of  the 

cause, 

That  noble  man,  that  swerveless  head,  Wis 
consin's  [Great  applause]. 

From  where  the  pine-clad  hills  of  Maine  in 

fronded  beauty  stand, 
To  where  the  jagged  Rockies  reach  across  this 

lovely  land, 
Is  heard  the  name  that  echoes  over  valley  and 

through  chasm, 
The  name  of  —  need  I  mention  it  —  of  [Great 

enthusiasm]. 

Ah,  gentlemen  assembled  in  this  gre-eat  con 
vention  hall, 

This  land  of  ours  is  fairest  on  the  whole 
terrestrial  ball; 

And  who  so  fit,  from  Boston  to  where  rolls  the 
Oregon, 

To  steer  the  Ship  of  State  as  [Cries  of  "Louder!" 
and  "Go  on!"] 

148 


Some  Speeches 

That  brave,  intrepid,  fearless,  dauntless,  wise, 

courageous  one, 
That   plain    and    honest    Democrat,    Rhode 

Island's  favorite  son, 
Who  loathes  the  predatory  rich,  the  wicked 

trust  and  grafter, 
That  sterling  statesman,  need  I  say  [Continued 

cheers  and  laughter]. 

Ohio  offers  up  a  name  requiring  no  laudation 
To  gain  for  him  the  honor  of  this  glorious 

nomination ; 
The  choice  of  all  this  big  broad  land  is  he,  to  all 

appearing 
I  bring  the  name  of  William  Howard  [Loud 

and  mighty  cheering}. 

But  who  has  put  the  nation  where  it  proudly 

stands  to-day? 
What  is  the  greatest,  biggest  name  in  all  these 

U.  S.  A.? 
The  name  of  Theo  [Reader,  this  applause  you'll 

have  to  guess, 
For  truly,  there  be  limits  to  the  power  of  the  press]. 


149 


NO  TROUBLE  TO  SHOW  GOODS 

[For  the  benefit  of  advertisers,  present  and  pros 
pective,  it  should  be  stated  that  these  are  only  a  few 
of  the  publisher's  kinds  of  type.] 


Speak   gently   to   the   printer   man, 

His  'work  is  pretty  hard; 
Besides,  he  does  the  best  he  can 

To  help  along  a  bard. 

O  ever  ready  his  response 

To  anything  we  askt 
Though  we  demand  a  hundred  font 

He  would  not  curse  his  task. 
And  yet  his  lot  is  not  a  pipe; 

Small  wonder  he  is  vexed, 
If  we  mark  this  for  Jensen  type, 

tfjte  for  Cation 

U50 


No  Trouble  to  Show  Goods 

Run  this,  we  pray,  in  Elzevir; 

This  in  Devinne  Slope  ; 
Put  this  in  Gothic,  plain  and  clear; 

In  Blanchard  set  this  dope. 

Let  this  line  in  Long  Primer  stand, 
And  this  in  Century  Bold  style; 

This  in  8-point  John  Aldcn,  and 

This  10-point  Cheltenham  Old  Style, 

In  Modern  Roman  set  this  here  ; 


This  goes  in  regular  brevier, 

AND  THIS  IN  AGATE  CAPS. 

So  do  nol  scorn  the  printer  man 
Whose  labor  is  so  tough  — 

He  does  the  very  best  he  can 
To  help  us  with  our  stuff, 


THE   END 


151 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


YB  76759 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


